For The First Time, I'm Thinking Past Tomorrow
by ColdInMyProfessions
Summary: Alexander still hadn't gotten used to it. The constant moving, the feeling of never belonging anywhere. Each house blurring into the next, he never knew when to expect a hit or harsh words, a meal or an empty stomach. Eventually he turns up on the Washingtons' doorstep, preparing for the worst. What he gets is actually, quite the opposite. TW inside, Lams.
1. Chapter 1

**Hey! This is my first fan fiction on this account, I wrote a few others last year under a different name but none of them were Hamilton ones. I'm much better with grammar, spelling and just not being very cringe. If you take the time to read this, thanks, just don't leave hate below because I will remove it. I'll add any trigger warnings at the top of each chapter and if I think it's necessary I'll add brief in text warnings too.**

 **This is one of those foster care AU's too, so you probably know the plot this is going to have, hahahah.**

 **Trigger warning for mentions of child abuse and I guess mild panic attacks.**

Alex still hadn't gotten used to it. The constant moving, the feeling of never belonging anywhere. Each house blurring into the next, he never knew when to expect a hit or harsh words, a meal or an empty stomach.

He didn't think he had ever lived in a foster home for longer than six or seven months; most parents didn't want some broken and battered immigrant who couldn't keep their mouth shut.

He didn't mean to be so impetuous. He knew the consequences of talking back, of hitting back. That didn't stop him, but he always ended up with more bruises than reasons it was worth it.

Alex rested his cheek against the cool glass of the car window and watched fields and rivers pass him by in the mist-veiled, Virginian night time.

His social worker sat in the front seat attempting to make conversation, not having much success.

"Let's hope this home works out better than the last few, hey kiddo?'

Alex rolled his eyes and bit back a sharp retort. He didn't know if this man was the kind of guy to hit kids who mouthed off or not.

Not deterred by Alex's silence, the man continued.

"You just need to learn to control your temper a bit more. You're a good kid, but you lash out too much."

Alex sighed. He wanted to say that he only hit second, never first, that he would much rather use words than fists, or that when you're lying beaten and bloodied on the floor you can't take another kick in the ribs.

But he didn't. He just closed his eyes and shut out the rest of the man's lecture.

As they started to enter a more suburban looking neighbourhood Alex's breathing quickened and he squeezed his eye shut.

Too many times had his first night in a new home be full of awkward stares and probing questions, followed all to soon by a harsh word and hits.

The houses in this neighbourhood were ridiculously large, he was pretty sure they were around the size of his last three homes put together.

 _Great, I'm just going to be another punching bag for some rich, white family to take their anger out on._

Alex gnawed hard on his knuckle reopening an old cut there from last night when he had bit down so hard he'd drawn blood.

He winced and chewed at the fraying string on his hoodie instead, trying to control his breathing.

Looking down at himself be was suddenly very aware of his appearance. Too big jeans ripped in the wrong places for it to be purposeful. A tattered leavers hoodie from his middle school, still too big on his hunger-pang frame.

Bruises decorated his wrists from two days ago, still purple and angry looking from-

 _No, don't think about that Alex, don't think about that._

 _Cold tile pressed against his cheek._

 _Watching a crack in the plaster of the wall._

 _Waiting to black out as he felt a rib crack._

Alex winced and drew a deep breath, his heart fluttering madly and a pain blooming in his chest.

Suddenly the car stopped. He hadn't even noticed it slowing down.

Alex looked up and the car door opened onto another unnecessarily wealthy street. The house in front of him was built in a typical American fashion with a white picket fence.

 _Of course there's a fucking white picket fence_

A sprinkler spat jets of water over carefully manicured flower beds and warm orange light lit up the windows of the bottom floor.

Alex gulped as his social worker led him to the front door, hating the feeling of having a figure behind him and flinching when he put his hand on the boy's shoulder.

They stood in silence on the porch as the man rung the bell twice. The night was heavy and the tension was tangible. He could feel the cool air pressing down against his body, flooding his lungs and choking him.

Alex's breathing quickened as waves of nausea rolled over him.

He couldn't breathe, he had to breathe, his throat was closing-

Suddenly the white washed front door opened and orange light spilt on to him and his social worker beside him.

Two figures stood before them in the half light and Alex's stomach dropped when he took them in.

The woman was smiling warmly, her eyes crinkled kindly and she wore a neat, expensive looking suit. Her skin was dark, like her eyes and she was probably in her late thirties or early forties, as no white hairs yet decorated her up do.

She wasn't who Alex had a problem with. It was the man next to her that his gaze was most drawn to.

He was enormous, for lack of a better word.

He was easily six foot three, possibly even taller, with a broad chest and large, powerful hands. Alex winced when he imagined one of those hands around his throat, easily choking him, holding him against the wall, the other adding more bruises to his already battered body.

He couldn't breath, black spots danced across his vision, his legs were about to buckle. The man spoke.

"Good evening. It's a pleasure to meet you!" He directed his next sentence at Alex.

"My name is George Washington, and this is my wife Martha. We're very pleased to have you staying with us."

Alex drew in a sharp breath and Mr. Washington looked at him with an expression Alex couldn't read, though his years in the system he had learned interpret most stares as less than friendly.

He swallowed and reached out to shake the man's hand silently.

Unaccustomed to being treated like anything more than dirt by most adults, his grip was slack and nervous, though he did subconsciously tightened it to mirror that of his new foster father's.

As they shook hands, the sleeve of Alexander's hoodie slipped back at least a few inches and for a few seconds the awful bruises circling his wrist were visible.

Mr. Washington stared at them for a long moment before fixing Alex with a searching look and dropping his hand.

Then, Alexander's social worker spoke.

"Well, it seems you are well prepared for Alex, Mr. and Mrs. Washington, but unfortunately I have work in New York tomorrow morning, so it's best I continue on my way."

Mrs. Washington smiled and shook the man's hand,

"Of course, well, we hope you have a safe journey and thank you for bringing Alex to us."

His social worker smiled politely and gave Alex a sharp look, evidently reminding him of the talk he had given him in the car, then he turned on his heel and walked back down the driveway.

He got back into his car with a final wave and drove away down the road, through the cool Virginian dark.

Alex turned around to face his two foster parents, suddenly feeling very cold. He was alone in a house with two strangers at night, one of whom could probably bench press twice his weight.

Mrs. Washington seemed to notice his discomfort and smiled warmly at him again, beckoning him inside.

"Well, it seems to me you're quite tired, do you want me to show you to your new bedroom? If your hungry I could heat something up for you."

Alex didn't reply but gave a small shake of his head and glanced towards the stairs.

Martha took this as agreement to her former suggestion and smiled, looking pointedly at Mr. Washington, who inclined his head and walked towards a door one the left of them. It opened on to room that looked like a large lounge

"Good night Alexander, introductions have been a little rushed tonight, I'm afraid. "

Mr. Washington smiled, Alex jumped and stared at him, searching for any trace of malice in his face but finding none, he opened his mouth and stuttered a quiet goodnight in response before the lounge door shut gently and he and Mrs. Washington were left alone in the hall.

His breathing calmed somewhat as they climbed the stares and moved onto a wide landing, but his hands had not yet ceased trembling and he was still picking nervously at a cut on his knuckle.

Martha looked at his hands for a moment, taking in the slight shaking and harsh bruising before sighing gently and opening a door on his right.

Alex bit back a gasp as he took in his new room. He was tempted to ask whether some mistake had been made, or if this was merely temporary and a smaller room of accommodation would become available in the future. Yet, she was watching him expectantly with a small smile on her face. This room was... this room was his.

So he merely looked at Mrs. Washington for a moment and let her show him his bed, desk, wardrobe, bookshelves and even an en suite bathroom. Alex momentarily felt a pang of gratitude towards their kindness but quickly shut this compartment of his emotions down.

 _No, they just want something out of you. Once they've given you all these gifts and shit they'll use it against you. It's a trap, who would give anything to you anyway?_

Alex smiled nervously at Mrs. Washington and dropped his bag by the foot of his bed. Mrs. Washington turned the desk lamp on and suddenly, without even a moments notice, swept him into a hug.

Alex flinched and went rigid against her, his arms dangling limply at his sides. He squeezed his eyes shut and breathed.

 _It's just a hug, it's just a hug, it's just a hug._

Mrs Washington quickly regained herself and stepped back, her eyes widening slightly when she noticed the panic in Alexander's face.

"Alex, I'm so sorry.. I- I didn't realise."

She seemed so genuinely apologetic Alex smiled faintly and shook his head.

"It's nothing," he murmured, "Thanks for the room."

She smiled gratefully and nodded before walking to the door, opening it, she spoke to him for the last time that night.

"Good night, Alex."

A pause.

"Good night Mrs. Washington."

The door shut and Alex collapsed onto his bed, his shoulders still shaking and his eyes closed.

He collected himself and opened his backpack, taking off his hoodie and stuffing it in. He kicked off his shoes and lined them neatly up against the bed, making sure he closed his bag too.

Alex tentatively opened his bathroom door and switched on the light. He spotted some tooth paste and a tooth brush on the sink but didn't dare touch them.

He didn't know what kinds of things got him hit in this house.

Sighing, he rinsed his face with warm water and looked at his reflection in the mirror.

His eyes were dark brown and flinched at the slightest noise, many people had told them that his eyes were quite large, but be knew that was because he was always alert, perpetually looking out for danger.

His hair was dark, more so than his eyes, conker brown and darker at the roots than the ends. In winter it could be mistaken easily for black. Frankly it was far too long for his liking and was coming down from the bun he has fixed it in that norning.

His face was a different matter altogether. His lower lip was marginally swollen from his most recent beating, the last one he had endured from the Pace, and around his left eye was bruised lightly.

Finger marks were still drawn into the skin around his throat (he wanted to hide those ones from the Washingtons) and his usually tanned skin was pale and sickly looking, he could attribute this to many things, including the less than sunny weather of New York in the winter and the lack of food he had grown used to in his last family.

His arms were slightly browned and too skinny for a boy of fifteen. The bruises on his wrists were visible now, without his hoodie on and yet more purple and yellow bruising decorated his upper arms.

He could see the faint outline of his ribs through his dark blue shirt and his fingers were bony and ink-stained.

Alex sighed, not wanting to look at his reflection any longer. He turned out the bathroom light and got into bed, staring blankly up at the ceiling.

In his head he made a checklist of all the escape routes in his room.

 _The bedroom door: go out onto the landing, turn right, down the stairs, out the front door._

 _The bedroom window: open window, climb onto ledge, drop and hope the ground won't be too hard._

 _Bathroom window: squeeze out onto the roof of the kitchen. From there jump onto the front lawn, hope the neighbours don't see._

Satisfied for the time being, Alex then started to list the things he was scared about here, and got to about fifty before sleep finally won and his eyes fluttered shut. The last thought he had in his head was;

 _No. 50, Mr Washington._

 **As you can see, I'm not an amazing writer and my dialogue could be better, but here's chapter one, I hope you enjoyed! Review and follow if you'd like, it would make my day!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Yo, friends. This update is crazy quick but I had the idea in my head so I put it down.**

 **I already have three reviews? Whaaaaat! Thanks a lot dudes.**

 **TW for panic attack and flash back to abuse.**

George Washington nervously fiddled with the end of his tie, he was sat on the dark leather sofa in the lounge, next to his wife.

It was around twenty past nine and Alexander was due at the house in just under ten minutes. Next to him his wife Martha nervously patted her hair and adjusted her suit, causing George to smile, humoured.

"Martha, this fifteen year old isn't going to care whether you've got a stray hair or not, everything's going to be okay."

To be honest, George was trying to convince himself of this too. The file they had received on the boy was brief but nevertheless worrying.

He had been moved through around nine foster homes in the three years he had been in the system and the notes in his file reported physical violence and the tendency towards fighting with previous foster parents.

Accompanied with this information was a small photograph of a thin looking teen with huge dark eyes and a wary face, hollowed cheeks and long hair.

Martha had looked at him anxiously when they had first seen the photo, wondering what kind of boy they had agreed to take in, however, there was something about the his posture, or maybe it was his eyes, that told George he shouldn't judge him by his cover, or the file that had been given to them.

They sat for another few minutes before the sound of a car slowing down outside met their ears and a few moments later, the doorbell rang.

They hastened towards the hallway, George taking Martha's hand in his and squeezing it reassuringly. Martha smiled and together they stepped into the porch and opened the door.

The first thing that struck George about Alexander was his eyes, like in the photo they were huge and wary, but the anxiety in them seemed to be multiplied tenfold.

His shoulders were shaking and although he seemed to be trying his harderst to conceal his obvious fear, his posture was stiff and tense.

George smiled as kindly as possible and introduced himself to the teen and his social worker.

George extended his hand to the boy, trying to appear stern but gentle. He might have imagined it but the boy seemed to flinch and shrink away from George, but a moment later seemed to steal himself into the handshake.

Looking down at their hands, George noticed that when the sleeve of Alex's hoodie slipped back a ring of nasty looking bruises circled his wrist and his knuckles looked red and sore, as though he had been biting them, or punching someone. Maybe both.

He sighed internally and glanced at Martha who seemed not to have noticed, although concern was clear in her eyes.

The social worker smiled politely and greeted the Washingtons, telling them he was due in New York soon, giving Alexander a sharp look and excusing himself.

Alex, if it was possible, seemed to grow more anxious and was eyeing George's impressive height and admittedly intimidating muscles.

In that moment George realised then it would probably be best if he excused himself to the lounge while Martha brought the kid to his room. George had the best intentions but he cursed his 6"3 stature and broad chest for the first time.

Martha was speaking kindly to Alexander and pointed towards the stairs, evidently offering to show the boy to his room.

"I hope you'll forgive me Alexander," Washington apologised, "Introductions have been rather rushed tonight."

Alex had jumped at his words and was now nodding nervously, the panic in his eyes dimming slightly as he started up the stairs behind Martha.

"Good night Alexander." Smiled George.

"G'night..." He muttered in response before turning the corner onto the landing upstairs.

George turned into the lounge and sat back down on the couch, waiting for Martha to return back downstairs.

He mulled over the events of the last few minutes in his mind. The bruises on Alex's wrists and the way he flinched at the slightest movement. He wondered whether the injuries he had were simply from a school yard brawl or something more sinister.

George pushed these thoughts from his mind, not wanting to ponder any further the obvious signs of what he didn't want to accept had happened to boy.

He was only waiting a few moments for Martha as she returned quickly from showing Alexander his room.

When she came down again he immediately noted a disheartened expression on her face. He raised an eyebrow and she explained.

"It's my fault I suppose, I gave him hug and he panicked, he flinched and stiffened up, for a moment up was worried he would have a panic attack. He seems polite though, a nice boy. He calls us Mr. and Mrs. Washington, we'll have to ask him to call us something else tomorrow, Mr. and Mrs seems far too formal."

Martha smiled sadly and continued, "I almost would rather he was aggressive or irritable. It upsets me to know he's been conditioned to act this way."

George grasped her shoulder sympathetically, "I don't want to... I don't want to upset things further, but I noticed something when I shook his hand just then."

Martha drew a sharp breath and remained silent, signalling George to continue.

"Well, it's just that I saw his sleeve slip back and he's got bruises all around his wrist, nasty ones. As if someone grabbed him pretty forcefully there. I think he noticed me starting and he seemd pretty defensive about it."

Martha looked into her lap and nodded.

"I suspected something like that, I just hope that's the only injury he's sustained. At least he's with us now."

George nodded and took her hand in his, "well if there's any one who could care for Alexander, it's you Martha. We just have to help him."

Martha smiled and pecked him on the cheek, later in bed she thought about what George had said and hoped to God it would turn out to be true.

* * *

Alex was engulfed in a cloud of warmth and comfort. He didn't want to leave this, tightly wrapped in soft sheets and bedding. But it was getting tighter, and tighter.

Hang on, a minute ago he was comfortable. Now he couldn't breath. God, no, he was going to suffocate here. His chest was tightening and his eyes were glued shut.

Oh God, oh God.

 _Then cold tiles were pressed against his back and his head was being lifted of the floor and slammed into the wall. A voice echoed far away above him, a diatribe of insults penetrating his distant ears._

 _"Stupid. Insolent. Whore's son. Immigrant!"_

He watched the plaster in the wall crack and suddenly it was collapsing, breaking down and englufing him in a cloud of back dust as he heard the laughing of his foster father in the distance.

He woke up on the floor beside a bed in an unfamiliar room, panting and his forehead damp.

A yell had just left his throat as he jerked into consciousness and he hoped to God no one had heard him. He glanced at the clock on the wall and winced. 4:49 AM

 _Shit. They were going to be so angry, so, so angry if he woke them._

Alex waited on the floor shivering, anticipating foot steps hurrying along the hallway, the harbinger of pain.

And then he heard them.

Footsteps were rushing towards his door and Alex struggled to get to his feet as an anxious knocking sounded from the other side of his door.

He winced and called shakingly out to whoever it was, "you can come in. I'm fine, really."

The door was pushed open instantly and Alex backed into the corner of his room as George Washington rushed in, his eyes still bleary with sleep but displaying an emotion Alex wrongly interpreted as anger.

 _Oh God, oh God. You've messed up already you absolute- he's going to punish you now and you deserve it. Good luck, this dude is probably twice the size of Pace and you know what happened to you with him._

 _You're in for it now._

Alex couldn't breath. As Mr Washington jogged across the room to him he sank down into a crouch on the tips of his feet and let out what could have been called a whimper.

"Please, I- I'm so sorry. I won't do this again, please don't hurt me, I'm sorry."

Alex's breathing quickened and a second later he was hyperventilating, his eyes clamped shut.

Mr Washington stood there, dumbfounded and saddened, shocked at what Alexander had thought he was about to do.

He slowly sank down and knelt next to the boy, not daring to touch him and being careful not to make any sudden movements.

"Son, I-"

He was cut off as Alex sucked in harsh breath and whimpered louder this time.

George started again, not realising the affect his term of address had had, repeating the pronoun.

"Son, I'm not going to hurt you. You've done nothing wrong."

Alex flinched again at the word but slowly made eye contact with George. His breathing still laboured and harsh.

"Count with me Alex, okay?

One, two, three, four five."

Alex let out a shaky breath and started to count.

"Six, seven, eight, nine, ten. One, two, three, four, five..."

They continued like that for one more, long minute until Alex's breathing could pass for something near normal.

Again he apologised, "Mr. Washington sir, I'm really sorry, I didn't mean to wake you. You can leave now. I'm sorry."

Mr Washington sighed again and for one awful moment, Alex thought he ws about to hit him. He shrank away and Mr. Washington spoke.

"I don't hurt children, Alexander. I don't hurt anyone who has done nothing wrong."

Alex was in shock. It was ten minutes to five in the morning, he had forced this man to wake up, on a week day and he had made him to stay with him because he'd had a stupid panic attack. And this man wasn't going to hit him?

 _Wow, you're pretty messed up aren't you. You just expect pain. Weird if you ask me. I guess you deserve it right now though. Maybe you actually liked all that happened in the last house._

Alex kicked the voice out of his mind and nodded dimly, making sure to take long, deep breaths.

"What happened, if you don't mind telling me, son."

Alex looked at Washington and choked out ,"call me Alex..."

Washington smiled and nodded. "Well, in that case Alex, I'm going to have to insist you call me George, and my wife Martha."

Alex nodded and spoke again.

"I just had a nightmare, you don't need to worry about it. I get them on the reg anyway, my last home called them night terrors but in my opinion that makes them sound worse than they are. In my group home I took meds but they didn't do much. I didn't mean to wake you or anything, I only yelled because I fell onto the floor."

 _Will you shut up Alex, SHUT UP, no one cares, just do yourself a favour and spare him the lecture._

But the words just poured out of his mouth like they always did, tumbling over each other and pushing to get out of his mouth.

"It's not like it even hurt that bad or anything, the carpet here is so soft anyway. In one home I had a bunk bed, that didn't work out so well, as you can imagine. Normally it's not too bad, I've learnt to deal with them. Plus I-"

George held out his hand Alex gulped, sure he had crossed the line this time, sure he was going to be hit, sure his social worker would have to pick him up in an hour, set him a new record of the quickest stay in a foster home.

Son, you don't need to explain yourself to me, it's alright. I understand."

This almost made him snap but he held his tongue and drew in a deep breath instead.

"Alex?"

"It's nothing, really, just... well, I prefer Alex over son... As long as that's okay, I'm not demanding or anything... sorry."

George smiled and nodded his head, his expression amused.

"Of course Alex, slip of the tongue. I'll call you whatever you want." He put extra emphasis on the boy's name.

Alex couldn't help but shudder.

 _'Can you call me Alex sir?' he stuttered, glancing up at Pace. "I just don't really like son.'_

 _Pates placed a well aimed kick into Alex's left side and smiled as the boy doubled over in pain and heard a satisfying crack._

 _Before he left the room he turned back to the boy._

 _'Put some ice on that, son. Wouldn't want anyone having to see that.'_

Alex learnt not to demand things after that.

George looked at the teen concernedly but chose to let it go.

"So, is there any chance of you getting back to sleep?"

Alex sighed a sigh and shook his head. He knew after a nightmare his sleep would be fractured or pretty much non-existent.

"It's okay, I can shower and wait here until it's a more reasonable hour."

"Nonsense," scoffed George, "shower and come downstairs. You can have an early breakfast if you'd like and I have a copy of the New York Times being delivered in fifteen."

A warmth filled his chest at the unexpected kindness of this man but the nagging voice in the back of his mind told him not to be indebted by other people's kindness. Nothing was ever free and there was always a price to pay.

He shook these thoughts away and smiled, nodding at George's suggestion.

"Okay, shower and I'll see you in fifteen, Alex."

The teen scrambled to his feet and nodded, walking hurriedly towards the shower as though he'd been issued a command.

"Take your time Alex." George smiled, and Alex slowed little, grinning sheepishly.

Fifteen minutes later he was walking down the stairs towards the kitchen were he assumed George would be at this hour.

He had showered with just water, not having any soap in the bag of essentials he had been given. He thought it was a pretty shit bag of essentials.

Unfortunately, the only clothes he had were the ones he had worn the night before and to bed, though had a few more pairs of socks and underwear.

Thankfully he was pretty thin so his body didn't need to sweat to keep him cool. In fact, his main priority was to stay warm during the day.

That was a messed up thing to be thankful for, he mused.

George was fully dressed now, out of the grey sweats and vest he had slept in. He wasn't wearing work clothes however and instead had donned a button down and jeans.

Nice, expensive looking jeans, Alex noted bitterly. He got his clothes in thrift shops and the lost and found bins in his old school. This man probably shopped at fucking bespoke tailors.

George looked up as he entered the kitchen and frowned.

"You wore that to bed didn't you, and last night."

"I- uh, I guess yeah." Alex stuttered quietly, embarrassed by his lack of clothes.

"Don't worry about it, we'll get you some new clothes today." George smiled.

Alex's head reeled at this. This level of generosity was more than he was accustomed to and he couldn't imagine anyone going to so much trouble over him.

There was still that nagging voice in his mind that told him this was all a trap and he couldn't trust these people. Unfortunately, as of yet, Alex couldn't quite dismiss these thoughts.

 **Hey! That ending was kinda abrupt but I'm about to get a boat and I'm in a restaurant now waiting. I wanted to post something quick for you guys! Review and follow if you'd like (:**


	3. Chapter 3

**hello people! Thanks for freaking seven reviews already! I know I'm updating really, really fast, just don't get too used to it.**

 **The next few chapters will come out super speedily, but after that you'll probably get three updates a week.**

 **Something like that. When I go back to school in September, it might be a little less. Still, if I'm not able to update at any point I will tell you.**

 **My last story got to forty eight chapters in about 20 months, but that was a little slow, so, expect a bit more. Man. Nostalgia. That was all the way back in 2015.**

 **Anyway, thanks to CarolinePhillips 707, I'll take your tips and make sure I consider them while I'm writing. I think the quality of my stuff will get a little better now because I'm back home. The past two were written on the go, seriously, like in a car.**

Alex was perched on a chair at the kitchen table leafing through the New York Times in awkward silence. Mr. Washin- George, had finished with it a few minutes ago and had tossed it to him to look through.

His foster father had now resumed their state of quiet, flicking through his phone and occasionally glancing up at the boy. Despite the kindness the couple had shown to him, Alex was still on his guard around George, after all, every foster home started the same way.

He was fed, bought more clothes than he could use, treated like he was actually a person rather than something that earned $25 for his foster parents. This was usually to throw social services off them, so there was no doubt they were a 'nice, kind' family.

Then, usually around the two week point, he'd get the first punch. Normally he'd either mouthed off, stolen something from them (usually food, he'd learnt to prepare for starvation in advance) or just happened to be in the house when they got pissed.

There had been the Harveys. His first ever foster home, he'd stayed with them for four months. That was the first time he had known what true hunger felt like.

They had very rarely hit him. The couple were old and to be honest, in a fight, Alex could have blown on that old man and he would have collapsed. Still, this was before Alex had learned you had to steal to survive. His stomach still emptied itself when it was even half full, an unwelcome souvenir from his thirteenth year. He'd been fed in a month what most people would eat in a week.

Next were the Johnsons. He was with them for five months, and in those five months he went to the ER for the first time. Those five months were the first time he had been hit, he still had scars on his back from Mr Johnson's belt.

There had been the Akemanns, the Harpers and then, Katherine.

She was the first foster parent he had actually liked. An old lady in her seventies, her wit was as sharp as Alex's and made up for her lack in eyesight. He stayed with her for six months and got used to the feeling of a full stomach.

He didn't have any scars from those six months either. Unfortunately, being in her seventies and having some already existing condition, she had gotten sick. Alex didn't know what it had been, he only knew that she had been ruled unfit to care for him and he was moved on. He didn't see her again.

The homes blurred into each other after that, untill the Paces. Mr Pace and his adult son, Richard. He was there for seven months and he had visited the ER so many times in those months, he knew the doctors and nurses in Brownsville general hospital by name.

He could still remember the whistle of Mr. paces belt as it flashed through the air. The cold burn that intensified to a crescendo of pure agony when it had hit him, again and again and again.

The feelings of an empty stomach and hollow ribs became commonplace.

He could remember the cracked plaster of the kitchen walls and how cold the tiles were against his cheek. He remembered the dent in the cheap plaster that his head had made when it was smashed against it, just two days ago when Mr Pace had found out he was leaving.

The bruises he wore daily to school couldn't go unnoticed for long and although Pace was never even questioned, Alex had been moved for his own 'safety'.

Ha, as if the next family wouldn't be the same as all of then had been.

Alex snapped out of his day dream (if it could be called that) and looked up, realising George had been staring at him. He knew he probably looked like shit and his face had almost certainly paled at the memories of his last three years.

It wasn't his face George was staring at however. It was his neck. This sudden attention was uncomfortable to say the least and he blanched when George suddenly stood up, an unreadable expression etched onto his face.

"Alex, what are those on your neck?"

 _Shit, shit. He knows. He definitely knows. You're in for it now. No one wants a kid who's all broken and tainted. If your lucky he'll only call the foster people, maybe you should run. You've planned the escape routes..._

Alex stood up so quickly his chair fell back onto the floor with a loud clatter. He froze for a momet, in front of an equally still Washington before he bolted to the front door, passing a panic stricken looking Martha in the hallway.

He grabbed the handle of the front door and pushed it open with so much force it rebounded and crashed into his shoulder, making him stumble and wince, but he refused to let that hinder him. He was at the end of the drive way about to reach the street when he heard his name yelled from the porch behind him.

Whipping around he saw a terrified looking Martha clutching her dressing gown around her in complete confusion and a panic-stricken George, who was breathing heavily and was evidently the one who had yelled after him.

 _You need to run. They can't know about Pace, just find the nearest bus station. Run._

Alex was about to do just that when he felt a tight grip on his shoulder and a presence behind him. The hand was hurting him, the bruise beneath still sore.

 _Ha, you're done for..._

He turned his head slowly, petrified and stared at Washington behind him. His foster father calmly led him back towards the front door, Alex couldn't even be bothered to resist. He just hoped they would get over with quick, or that he would black out before he could feel any of the real pain.

He whimpered as George led him to the lounge and sat him down on the sofa. Curling in on himself he braced for the inevitable beating he was about to endure.

A minute later though, he felt nothing. Were they toying with him? Luring him into a false sense of security before they struck?

He managed to look up and saw his foster parents crouched in front of him. Martha looked almost tearful and quiet concern was evident in George's eyes.

"Alex," he started, looking directly into Alex's eyes, "we will never hit you, we will never hurt you. We don't know what happened in your last homes, but that is behind you know. You live with us, and we will _never_ raise a hand agianst you, or anything else for that matter."

Alex flinched slightly when George's voice rose slightly at the word never, but he looked into his eyes anyway and nodded slowly.

 _Bullshit._

Ignoring the voice he took deep breaths and counted in his head like George had for him. One, two, three, four, five, one, two, three, four, five.

Eventually he had calmed himself to a slightly more normal state and George spoke again.

"I asked you about your throat because I saw bruises there, Alexander."

 _Shit, he's using your full name. He must be mad._

"I'm not mad, I just want to help you."

Martha drew in a breath, realising the gravity of the situation. She slowly reached her hand up to Alex's back and rubbed soothing circles there, not speaking but acting so much like his mother, Alex teared up a little.

"Alex, you don't need to tell us what happened, but can we at least put something on them. They look painful."

"O-okay" Alex whispered, shifting on the couch so that he was no longer curled into a ball.

George nodded and hurried off upstairs while Martha continued to rub circles into his back, whispering soothingly to him. He felt almost as though he woukd drift off can't any moment. He hadn't slept peacefully in a while and eaten properly in even longer. The hunger gnawed at his stomach like restless beast, expecting to be fed.

A moment later George returned with a pot of some sort of ointment, a roll of bandages and some plasters.

Alex stared at those last items in confusion. You didn't bandage a bruise... did you?

"For your hands Alex." George explained and Alex nodded, understanding.

Ever so slowly he stretched his left arm out to George, who pushed his hoodie back ever so slightly and dabbled a thick layer of ointment onto the bruises around his wrists. Alex hissed as the cream stung his raw skin.

"Sorry," murmured George.

"S'kay..." responded Alex.

Next he rubbed ointment onto Alex's swollen knuckles and bandaged them gently, wrapping the cloth around his hand and securing in with the plasters he had brought down.

He repeated this process with the other hand, Alex wincing when he grazed a particularly sensitive bruise.

George apologized hastily and payed extra attention to that hand. When he was done he handed Alex the tub of ointment.

"Would you like to do your neck yourself? I don't want to hurt you."

Alex nodded gratefully and stood up. He walked across to the door, on his way to the mirror in the bathroom.

He stopped. "Thank you, George, thank you Martha."

His voice was strained and hoarse but the look in his eyes told the couple he was sincere.

They smiled together. Martha's smile widened slightly, and she shook her head in a dismissive manner.

"Alex, we'll always care for you. We're your foster parents."

Alex nodded and curled his mouth upwards slightly before leaving the lounge and walking upstairs to the bathroom.

In front of the mirror he pulled of his hoodie, locking the door so no one could come in and see the other bruises on his arms.

Hesitantly, he rubbed the ointment into the bruises on his throat. They were sensitive and stung painfully, but the cream was cold and soothing.

Sighing, he thought of the bruises that marred his his back, shins, shoulders, chest, stomach and upper arms.

He would deal with those later.

Alex rinsed his face with the coldest water he could and pulled his hoodie back on, careful not to rub away the ointment. He stowed the ointment back in the cupboard and walked back through his room and down the stairs.

As he neared the kitchen he heard muttered voices conversing, he caught his name amongst the whispers.

He stopped to listen, just outside the kitchen door.

"But George, what if he's hurt even worse than this? We don't know what injuries he's got under that hoodie, there must a reason he even sleeps with it on!"

"I understand Martha," it was George's voice now, "but taking him to the hospital seems a bit far, especially considering that we haven't seen any other injuries on the boy, and I highly doubt he's going to let us see any more if he has them."

He heard a deep sigh and the sound of fabric rustling, he assumed the couple had embraced.

Embarrassed to have been listening at the door he retreated a few paces before walking loudly down the last few stairs and opening the door to the kitchen.

Martha and George looked up as he entered and broke apart.

"All good?" Asked George, eyes caring and mouth stretched into a warm smile.

Alex smiled back and nodded.

"Listen... thanks for the ointment and bandages and stuff. You didn't have to, I'm sorry about trying to run off and waking you so early in the morning."

Martha laughed softly and shook her head. Her hair was not her pinned back in her usual work style and her many curls bounced charmingly.

"Alex, it's alright, in fact, when I woke up I realised I hadn't set my alarm last night, so really, you stopped me from over sleeping!"

George smiled to himself. This wasn't strictly true. Trust Martha to say something so sweet to calm this boy. He was so lucky to have her...

"Anyway? Who's hungry?"

George laughed and nodded at his wife, "I think everyone could do with some coffee and something to eat."

Alex had gone stock still. They were just going to give him food? But he hadn't even done any chores yet! He had eaten yesterday anyway, and he had woken them up at an ungodly hour! They were just going to feed him?

"Do you drink coffee?"

Martha had flicked the kettle on and lined up three mugs. She was spooning instant coffee in to each one while George dripped cooking oil onto a pan.

"I- uh, yeah. Do- do you need me to help or anything?" Alex stuttered, not exactly sure what to do.

"You can just read the paper at the table if you'd like, we won't be very long." Marta was now pouring milk into each mug and stirring a spoonful of sugar into one.

"I- I... Are you sure?"

Martha turned around to him and pressed a mug of coffee into his hands. "If you're so eager to help, you can make dinner with me tonight, okay?"

She smiled and turned back to the stove, elbowing George playfully in the ribs when she needed to grab something from the drawer.

Alex sunk down into his chair and sipped at his coffee, the steam heating his face pleasantly.

He scanned through the articles in the paper. He grinned internally at the latest fuck up of the president on Twitter (he seriously didn't have a PR team to stop this crap?) and frowned at the news another bomb had fallen in Baghdad.

The paper nowadays tended to depress him, so he shut it and instead and took to staring out the sliding glass door that led to the garden.

It was much more natural looking than he had expected. That was probably a weird way to phrase it, what he meant was that the bushes weren't elegantly trimmed into perfect little spheres and the grass was long and lush, rather than fake looking and perfect.

A few willow trees at the very back of the garden filtered the sunrise into tiny flecks of gold onto the lawn and an old swing hung on one of the old, gnarled branches. Alex wondered vaguely who used it.

He was snapped out of his musings as a large steaming plate was placed in front of him.

Breakfast; scrambled eggs, toast, fried tomatoes.

His eyes widened at the meal, in his wildest dreams he had hoped for some buttered toast, never did he expected something like this.

Martha and George were next to him, already tucking in. His eyes darted their faces, wondering if he was allowed to eat yet.

They were talking amongst themselves and hadn't noticed his expression, so he waited, not believing he would actually be allowed to eat this.

Ten minutes later Martha and George were finishing the last of their meals and Alex hadn't even started yet.

His stomach was burning painfully, screaming at him to eat. He knew he couldn't though, the burning in his stomach was nothing to the punch he could expect from George if he acted out of line.

Logically, he knew the food was for him, of course it was, but his fears were the most illogical part of him. If there was even a chance eating would get him punished, he wouldn't take that chance.

Martha looked up at him stopped, taking in his nervous expression and full plate.

"Alex, you aren't hungry?"

George looked up too and frowned.

"Alex, you should eat if you're hungry. We made that for you."

Alex gulped and nodded, picking up some tomato on his fork. He glanced at Martha and George, who were watching him. George nodded and he began to eat.

Immediately his instinct took over and he started to eat quicker, the survival instinct in him yelling at him to get down as much as he could. He had to exert all of his will power to slow down and chew carefully and controlled.

Martha and George were still watching him and glanced at each other with a look that so clearly said pity.

Instantly, like the memories were a freezing wave breaking over him, he remembered the crying off the young children in his group home two years ago and the skinny arms of the kids he had lived with. He thought of the boy he shared a room with being beaten for sneaking food after dark from the kitchen because his meal had been stolen by an older teen.

Alex gagged and forced himself to swallow. He put his cutlery down and stopped eating, taking a deep breath.

He pushed his nearly untouched plate away from him and shook his head.

"I-I'm sorry... I can't."

George nodded sympathetically and patted his shoulder reassuringly. He flinched.

"If you're not hungry you can go back up to your room for now, we'll have lunch later so you can eat something then."

Alex nodded silently, feeling bile rise in his throat. He gasped and covered his mouth.

 _You're seriously gonna puke like a baby? Really? The last time that happened wa-_

But Alex was not thinking about that. He murmured and apology and bolted up the stairs, not soaring a glance to either of his foster parents. He collapsed in front of the toilet in his bathroom and began retching.

Eventually his stomach emptied everything he had eaten he dry heaved raggedly for a moment before rinsing out his mouth and staring at his reflection in the mirror.

The images bombarded him as he tried and failed to block out the memories.

 _Twelve tiny white pills._

 _The slump of his shoulders against the bed._

 _The hoarse scream of his room mate as the bottom of the door hit his shoulder._

 _The feeling of being hoisted onto_ someone's _back and pulled downstairs._

 _White._

Alex sank down against the door of the bathroom, unable to breath. Before he passed out he heard his name called from downstairs and footsteps on the landing.

The door of the bathroom was pushed open and someone yelled in alarm as he was pushed, unconscious onto the cold tiles.


	4. Chapter 4

**Hey guys, this is the second time writing this chapter because stupid word didn't save it oh my god. It took me like two hours to get like halfway through ugh.**

 **Thanks for all the reviews, and I apologise for the last chapter. I forgot to put in the trigger warnings, which was really bad of me considering the nature of the last chapter. I will continue to add them at the start of each chapter and when I finish this story I'll post a master list of all of them.**

 **Trigger warnings: brief mention of attempted suicide, mentions of abuse, breif mentions for vomiting, fainting, hospitals, ambulances.**

 **I know the themes in this fanfiction are quite dark, and although I have been lucky enough to never experience abuse, Alex's issues with mental health, particularly anxiety and depression, are based off my own.**

 **Because of the non descriptive mentions of suicide in the fanfiction, I will have the suicide hotlines in any chapter mentioning the subject and my profile. As well as this, I urge anyone struggling to get help. It can only get better from rock bottom, you won't regret it.**

 **Even if you aren't struggling with mental health issues or abuse, it is your duty on this site and in real life to respect those who are and show them empathy and understanding. Some of the reasons we have such high suicide rates, especially among men, is the fact that we don't talk about depression, anxiety, border line, schizophrenia or any other mental illness that can cause suicide. Please, just respect ecah other, okay?!**

 **This is a long one...**

George had just drained the last of his orange juice and had a compliment of Martha's excellent cooking on his tongue when he glanced at Alex across from him and noticed his completely untouched plate.

The boy was staring down at the meal with a conflicted expression on his too thin face. His eyes seemed pained and confused, as though he was trying to decide whether the food was real or not.

George looked over at Martha to see if she had also noticed. Due to her ever observant nature, she had and was eyeing him in concern.

"Alex, you aren't hungry?" She questioned, tapping his hand gently.

He started and looked up, meeting the couple's worried gaze.

George sighed, "Alex, you should eat if you're hungry. We made that for you."

As if a switch had been flicked on, Alex nodded and immediately got to work, picking up a tomato on his fork and putting it in his mouth, savouring the taste.

A few bites in his eyes widened and he began to eat faster, his eyes desperate, looking afraid that the food would be snatched away from him any minute.

In a different circumstance, George would have laughed and taken it as a compliment to he and Martha's cooking, however, he knew that even though the food was amazing, taste had little to do with it for Alexander. The boy was simply terrified he wouldn't eat again for a while and was trying to get as much in him as possible.

Then, without much warning a look of terror flashed across his eyes like lightening in a thunderstorm and he dropped the knife and fork with a clatter.

Slowly, he pushed his nearly full plate away from him with shaking hands, as though he didn't want to stop eating but had little control over the matter.

"I-I'm sorry... I can't."

He stumbled over his words but George nodded quickly, shooting him a sympathetic look.

"That's okay Alex, you can go to you're room for a nap if you'd like, we'll have lunch ready later. You can eat something then."

Alex nodded quickly and then let out a tiny gasp before clamping his hand to his mouth.

Alex's knees were trembling and he had clutched the end of this sleeve so tightly his knuckles were white.

"Sorry..." he whimpered, and before either George or Martha could stop him, Alex had bolted out of the room and stumbled up the stairs.

George looked at Martha in shocked silence.

"Do we follow him?" Martha whispered, "what if he's hurt?"

"I don't know..." murmured George, his eyes still fixed on the spot Alex had recently vacated.

"I think... I think if he's alright he'll come back down again in a minute, and if not, well, we'll go up."

"So we wait?" Martha echoed.

George nodded and picked up his plate, bringing it to the sink to rinse as Martha loaded the dishwasher.

As Martha stacked the clean plates in the cupboard, a faint but eerie thump sounded from the bathroom upstairs accompanied almost immediately by a pained, gasping sob.

Martha stared at George for a moment, a name on her lips.

"Alex."

A second later George was bounding up the stairs two at a time, Martha quick at his heels.

They burst into his room, running to the door of his bathroom.

George pounded against the wood urgently, fearing for what might be happening inside.

"Alex! Are you okay? Alex?" George tried to keep the desperation from his voice as he yelled through the door.

When there was no response he looked at Martha and she rushed to her room, coming back a second later with a hairpin.

George grabbed it urgently and bent it back so he could pick the lock. He shoved it into the keyhole and pushed each pin back, working furiously with near shaking hands.

He couldn't hear anything from inside the bathroom, which only made him even more fearful. The thump they had heard downstairs sounded all too much like a body hitting the floor.

Finally the lock clicked open and he burst the door open.

The door collided with something hard on the floor and looking down, he yelled in alarm.

Alex was lying on the floor passed out cold. His cheeks were wet and his hair dishevelled. George frantically scanned his arms and the floor for blood and sighed in relief when he saw none, ruling out his worst fear.

"I think we should call nine one one." Martha said from behind him, her voice full of fear.

George nodded, although the boy didn't seem to be bleeding or injured, the smell in the bathroom suggested he had been sick and after all, he was lying passed out on the floor.

George scooped Alex up from the cold tiles and lifted his limp frame into his arms all too easily.

"He's far too light Martha..."

Martha bit her lip in concern and reached into her pocket for her phone.

"Wait!" Exclaimed George, suddenly remembering something.

Martha looked up at him surprised,

"When someone passes out you count to a minute before dialling 911, in case they wake up. it's already been about thirty seconds."

Martha nodded and together they counted.

"One, two, three, four..."

As they neared thirty George looked down at Alex and hoped for any sign of him waking. Unfortunately, once they did finish counting, he was still passed out cold.

George nodded at Martha to call and cradled the boy's head, you had to keep it elevated in case they choked on their own spit. Right? Or was that during a fit? Shaking these thoughts away he focused on Martha.

She dialled the short number and put the phone to her ear, jigging her leg up and down as she waited.

George heard the familiar "hello, 911, what is your emergency?"

"Hello, I'm calling from 163 Yale drive, our foster son just collapsed in the upstairs bathroom and we think he was sick too."

"Do you know if the boy is breathing ma'am, can you check for me?"

"He's breathing yeah, shallowly though. Will he need an ambulance?"

"Is he still unconscious ma'am, have you moved him?"

"He's still passed out yeah. For more than a minute. My husband's holding him now."

"Is there any chance of a spinal or head injury? Any bleeding or bruising in those areas?"

Martha double checked Alexander's head, pushing some dark stands out of his face. She shook her head at George and spoke back into the receiver.

"No, there's none of that."

George pushed some more hair from Alexander's face and the woman on the other end of the call spoke again.

"Ma'am, an ambulance has been deployed to your address, you can expect it within the next three minutes. For now try to make him comfortable, lay him down on a bed or sofa and if he comes around, make him drink some water. Do you know the recovery position?"

"Yeah, I know it. I'll do all that. Thank you."

Martha hung up the phone and ushered George downstairs with Alex in his arms.

"Lay him down on the sofa until the ambulance arrives, you heard the operator, try to make him comfortable."

Martha was shaking slightly and her eyes were shining slightly with tears.

George brought Alex into the living room and lay him onto the sofa in the recovery position, marvelling at how light he was.

"Now we wait." He whispered, staring at the boy laying in front of him.

Martha stood next to George and held his hand firmly as they watched Alex, who was still showing no signs of consciousness.

"What do you think happened?" Questioned Martha.

"I don't know. He evidently got sick and he's underweight too, I can imagine that combination isn't so good for a person's health. I think he could have had a panic attack too, that can some times make you faint as well."

Martha nodded in agreement and leant into her husband's chest, his 6'3 stature dwarfing her 5'4 height.

A minute or so later the tell tale sound of an ambulance siren was outside the house on the street and two paramedics were jogging up the drive.

George went and answered the door before they even had to ring and they immediately followed George into the living room.

Working quickly and calmly, they put Alex onto a stretcher and with the help George had insisted giving, they brought him easily to the end of the ambulance and put him on the bed inside.

"Who's going with him? It can only be one." asked the first paramedic, a tall, lean man in his thirties with dark skin.

Martha and George looked at each other.

"I'm off work today anyway, you can go into the office for a few hours if you'd like and come home early." Offered George.

Martha shook her head. "I'm going to stay here okay, wait for you to get back. I don't really feel like work right now."

George nodded solemnly and stepped into the ambulence. He gave Martha a quick kiss and waved goodbye as the ambulance doors closed and it pulled out of the drive.

They were only about 15 seconds up the road when Alex stirred on the bed and groaned. His eyes fluttered open and he took in his surroundings, his breath hitching in his throat when he realised he was in an ambulance.

"Shh, shh, Alex, you're okay, you're okay."

Alex curled up into himself and started hyperventilating, his breath ragged and shallow, trembling.

He was muttering something under his breath to himself and had pressed his palms firmly to his eyes as he shook in terror

The _ambulance sirens wailing._

 _His breath coming fast and shallow._

 _His stomach churning and his fingers sluggish._

 _"Did you do it on purpose?"_

Alex held back a sob as he remembered his last time in an ambulance and chewed at his already cut up lip, something he did when he was nervous.

 _"one of these days you're going to chew that lip off son." Mr Pace's voice was condescending and sarcastically concerned. The conversation stopped when he received a harsh punch in the gut._

George took his hand and counted his breaths with him slowly while the second paramedic rushed to get Alex a bottle of water.

A few minutes before they reached the hospital Alex had calmed down somewhat and was taking tentative sips of water. He was still trembling but George had taken to whispering to him reassuringly and rubbing his shoulder.

Slowly, they moved him back onto the stretcher, despite his insistence that he could walk just fine.

"Let it be son," Alex tensed and guilt flooded George. "Sorry, Alex, just get into the stretcher, it's alright, I'm here."

Alex obeyed silently, laying back and closing his eyes, weary.

They brought him into the hospital and onto one of those wheely beds, he curled up and buried his head into his knees as they pushed him through the hospital leaving George behind, helpless in the waiting room.

Alex was brought into a private treatment room and told to lie down. He couldn't quite controll his breathing and just as it seemed he was on the verge of another panic attack did the doctors were kind enough to put an oxygen mask over his mouth to prevent him from hyperventilating.

Around ten minutes later he had calmed down sufficiently to explain what had happened. After a few minutes of deliberation between the doctor and the nurses, he was passed a hospital gown and told to change as they needed to take his weight, blood pressure and take a few other tests.

He was left alone in the room for a few minutes and the panic started to set in again. They would see his bruises, all his scars. What if they suspected the Washingtons? They had seen George, seen how muscle bound and tall he was, what if they thought he had hurt him?

His breathing quickened again as he whimpered and hugged his knees against himself. He didn't have long until they'd be back, wanting to take him and do all their strange science experiments on him, put tubes in his throat and lock him up or whatever else they did to broken freaks like him in hospitals.

Alex's hands were shaking as he peeled off his hoodie and jeans, then his tee-shirt. Leaving on only his boxers and socks he slid on the the gown and looked at himself im the mirror. He winced.

The boy in front of him was not a pretty sight. The ring of finger shaped bruise that circled his throat and wrists that had not even begun to heal yet. His arms were just as bad, if not worse. Splotches like stains of blue and purple marred his skin.

He could see the long white scar across his upper arm where Pace had held the edge of a burning frying pan to his bicep, and the curved scar across the top of his shoulder where Mr Johnson had gotten carried away with his belt.

Even putting aside the bruises, he was painfully thin and he could almost get his thumb and index finger to wrap around his ankle.

Alex gulped and looked at his bandaged knuckles uncertainly, would they realise he'd got the cuts on his knuckles in self deference or would the nurses and doctors be scared if him, think him dangerous?

Alex jumped when the door opened and one of the nurses stepped in. His eyes widened momentarily when his eyes fell on Alex's battered form.

Then, his eyes softened gently and he beckoned for Alex to follow him, leading the way to another wing in the hospital. Alex cringed as the eyes of patients and doctors alike gawped at him, as though he was some sort of freak show.

 _They're all staring because they hate you. They think you're a freak who should never have been born. Even the nicer ones_ _just pity you, you're so pathetic._

Over the next hour or so Alex was prodded and pulled all around the hospital. As he was being weighed he heard some of the doctors' conversation.

"Signs of abuse... talk to the man that brought him here."

"He's underweight, discoloration of fingernails suggests long periods of time without food."

Alex gulped and was lead again out of the room around the hospital again, eventually being seated in a dreary looking office.

After a few minutes a woman came in and sat at the desk across from him. She was around average height and had short, shiny black hair. Alex didn't know exactly where she was from but her accent when she intro herself was professional and her English was excellent, albeit tinged with something eastern European.

"I'm Doctor Samantha Warren, a child psychiatrist here at Saint John's"

Her smile was warm and friendly but Alex was too weary to reciprocate.

"I'm just here to ask you a few questions concerning some issues the staff have raised."

 _They hate you, they what you to be moved to another hospital. Or preferably back to the Washington's, maybe out if the country. Off the planet..._

"Can I talk to you about your living situation?"

Alex nodded before Dr. Warren continued.

"Our file on you says you were moved out of a Mr. Pace's home in New York two days ago to a Mr. and Mrs. Washington's house here in Virginia."

Alex nodded again, these questions were just going to be the usual ones she got from teachers and parents.

 _How did you get those bruises?_

 _Did you get those in a fight?_

 _Why do you pick fights when you get this?_

"Did Mr. or Mrs. Washington hurt you?"

Wait, what? That was not one of the usual questions! They suspected the Washingtons!

 _Shit. After all they've done for you, you've gotten them in trouble and now they're gonna kick you out. Maybe you should just leave, you might as well, save_ _them all the trouble with paper work and phone calls..._

He shook his head slowly but firmly, terrified but determined to defend his foster parents.

"No."

Dr Warren raised a perfectly drawn eyebrow.

"So who did?"

Alex took a deep breath, trying to prevent himself from hyperventilating.

"M-Mr. Pace, a few days ago. The Washingtons didn't hurt me, ask any of the nurses. They'll tell you the bruises are older than the time I've been with George and Martha."

Samantha nodded her head and stood up, calling to one of the nurses waiting outside.

"Nathaniel, can you tell me how old these bruises are?"

He looked at her strangely but examined Alex's arms carefully.

"A few days at least judging by the tinges of yellow, probably around four or five days. The ones on his wrists and neck have had some sort of ointment applied."

"I see. Thank you Nathaniel, I'll consult with you soon."

The nurse nodded politely and shot Alex a sympathetic look before leaving quietly.

Alex spoke again before Dr. Warren could.

"Mr. and Mrs. Washington put the ointment on this morning, they only know about those bruises, they're good people."

After a while Alex had managed to convince the doctor that George wasn't the perpetrator, that he just wanted to reast and he was okay. Well, he hadn't actually convinced her of that last one, never the less, he was brought to a small children's ward and given a bed to sleep in for a few hours, overnight if the doctors deemed it necessary.

He closed his eyes, absolutely exhausted, having gotten just about ten hours sleep over the past three days. As soon as his head touched the pillow he was gone, the energy knocked out of him and his body weary.

When he awoke it was dark outside and two people were sitting on chairs by his bed conversing quietly. George and Martha. George was clenching his fists and his jaw was set. Alex had never seen him so angry.

Reminded all to clearly of the danger signs he watched out for in foster fathers, he hid his head under the covers and breathed deeply.

Martha was off her chair at once when she saw he was conscious and rubbed slow circles into his shoulder, whispering comforting things at him through the blanket that although he couldn't hear, calmed him down enough to sit up properly.

He looked at George nervously for a moment or two but that man seemed to have calmed down substantially and was no longer speaking with Martha in terse, angry whispers.

"Alex, we've been so worried about you, we're so sorry we let you run off, we shoukd never have left you " Martha was speaking so sincerely it broke his heart and he shook his head quickly.

"No, no, it's nothing to do with you, it's all my fault. I'm so sorry I kept you so busy all day, Martha, you had work and I kept you from it! I can't apologise enough."

George shook his head, "Alex, no one blames you, not me, not Martha. Not the hospital."

His eyes darkened at this and Martha put a gentle hand on his arm.

"What's going on George? Martha?"

They both frowned and looked at each other.

"Its just that its taking some convincing on our part to assure them that George didn't do... this." She awkwardly gestured at Alex, "we've managed to discuss it with them further and fortunately, a psychiatrist by the name of Doctor Warren stepped in and luckily helped us out, she claimed she head spoken to you about it.

The hospital also called a hospital in New York that claimed it had records of you treated there for..." she winced, "other injuries.

George took over here.

"Basically we're just a little angry but we can take you home again tomorrow morning. The doctors called the foster care service you were placed in the care of and we were re-approved to have you stay with us. Everything is all cleared up kiddo, okay?"

Alex nodded and smiled his first genuine smile of the day.

"I'm sorry you were blamed for all of this George, I told them you didn't hurt me, that you were good people. I'm glad they believed me and I'm glad I still get to stay with you."

George grinned and it struck Alex how happy and unintimidating the usually stern and near terrifying man could look.

After a few minutes of pleasant chatter, George stood up and pecked Martha on the cheek.

"Sorry, honey, sorry Alex. Gil's flight gets in at 10:30 so I gotta go pick him up from the airport.

Martha nodded, completely unperturbed and gave him a quick hug.

"Take the car to the airport and be here to pick us up for nine thirty tomorrow, okay hun?"

George smiled and nodded, catching the keys as Martha tossed them to him.

Alex was still confused, "uh... who's Gil?"

George turned around, surprised, his expression changing to shock when he realised the question.

"He doesn't know..." muttered Martha.

Alex looked from one adult to the other, hoping for an answer on this 'Gil' character.

"Gil is... Gilbert Washington Yves Lafayette, our other foster son."

 **Ahhh, I bet you were wondering when the Lancelot of the revolutionary set would appear!**

 **Thanks for reading! Review and follow, if you'd like!**

 **List of hotlines by country, take out spaces in link because doesn't like links...**

 **/ resource / list- international -suicide- hotlines**

 **UK: 0845790909**

 **US: 18002738255**

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	5. Chapter 5

**Hey guys! I know I'm writing like I'm running out of time, but I keep getting the urge to continue this story!**

 **Trigger warnings: this chapter is dark, flashbacks to abuse, description of injuries sustained by abuse, mention of hospitals, mentioned panic attack.**

 **Some French in this. It's a long one... word count is: 4,771**

 **By the way, to clear up, they are in Virginia. I said west Virginia last time but that was the hospital.**

Alex was quiet for a long moment before coughing, "you have another foster son? No one told me..."

Martha swallowed and reached to rub his arm, "we thought they'd have told you about Gil, we would have mentioned it but, well, things got a little hectic."

 _God damnit, you're such a burden they didn't even get a chance to mention their SON. Once he gets back from wherever he's been he'll immediately hate you, then they'll send you away. You'll go back to Pace, he's the only one that will take you now, he's gonna want revenge._

Alex nodded, not voicing his innermost fears.

"Well," George scratched his scalp awkwardly, "I really do need to get to the airport. Martha will fill you in on Gil and us."

He walked to Alex and ruffled his hair in a very fatherly gesture. Alex successfully bit back a grunt of pain when George's hand grated over the spot Pace had smashed his head into the wall.

George smiled at him and walked out the door with a small wave, the room was silent as he and Martha listened to his heavy footsteps retreat down the bleached white corridor.

"Gil is your age you know, well, maybe a few months older. He turns sixteen in four months, what about you?" Martha was attempting conversation now

"Uh, six..."

"Ah, okay... Gilbert's been in France for the past two weeks since it's August and school only resumes in September. He's from France you know, moved here after his parents died when he was eleven to live with relatives. Unfortunately they were set to move back to France but couldn't take Gilbert with them, so we took him in. He's been with us for five years now."

Martha explained all this animatedly, her eyes softening when she thought of the boy.

"Huh, that's a long time." Alex said, trying not to mentally calculate how quickly he'd be kicked out when this boy got home.

Martha nodded.

"What's he like, Gilbert?" Alex couldn't fight his natural curiosity.

"Well, for one thing, he goes by Lafayette or Laf more than Gil or Gilbert, we just call him that. He's extremely bubbly, extremely French. His English is pretty good, but cut him some slack, five years isn't that much when it comes to learning our 'strange, ugly sounding language.'"

She did air quotes there with her fingers and grinned. Alex couldn't quite hold back a laugh. Gil sounded like fun, even if he was going to be the end of Alex's few hours of rare affection.

"Do you speak any French Alex? Or any other languages?"

"Yeah... I'm fluent in three I guess, French, Spanish and English."

Martha stared at him in shock.

"Oh Gil is going to _love_ you."

George fiddled with his keys as he stood in the arrivals lounge. Gil's plane had just landed, he would be here any minute now.

Putting his hands in his pockets he ran his fingers over a stray five dollar note and an idea struck him.

He walked quickly to the seven eleven opposite the arrivals board and scanned the candy shelf. Grinning, he grabbed a bar of Hersheys cookies and cream for Gil.

It was his favourite candy and they didn't have it in France. Knowing him, he'd be craving one by now.

After some quick deliberation he picked out the same for Alex, he had no idea what the boy liked chocolate wise but knew enough about teenagers to guess that anything with sugar was bound to be okay.

Besides, that boy could do with something to eat.

His shoved the chocolate into his jacket pocket and walked back over to the doors were Lafayette would come out.

After what was only about five minutes he heard an excited french voice that could only be Lafayette's coming down the corridor.

"Mon père is waiting for me! I haven't seen him in deux semaines! We have a foster boy joining our family this week you know!"

"Great..."

George grinned when he heard the weary voice of the unsuspecting victim who had been unlucky enough to sit next to Lafayette on the flight.

The grey doors swung open and a torrent of passengers streamed through, Gilbert at the front, his long, frizzy hair was tied back haphazardly in a ponytail and his fashion was as carefully casual as usual.

Black ripped jeans and white vest with French words scrawled across it in black messy pen. They seemed to have been written there by Gil himself.

'marre des criminels en uniforme.'

George didn't know what the slogan meant, making a mental note to ask his son later.

He raised his hand in greeting and a broad grin stretched across his face.

Lafayette cried out and sprinted towards George, dropping his suitcase and embracing his foster father tightly.

"Tu m'as manqué! So much!"

 _"I missed you!"_

George chuckled, letting the french slide. Usually he and Martha tried to encourage him to speak english as much as possible but he had just returned from France, he would cut him some slack.

"I did too son, ruffling his hair affectionately and pulling the candy bar out of his pocket."

Lafayette gasped and ripped open the packet, popping a square into his mouth and closing his eyes.

"You know me too well, papa!"

George chuckled and put his arm around the boy's shoulders. He had grown a little since he had last seen him but was still almost short next to George, he was about five foot ten and was admittedly tall for his age.

"So, the... how do you Americans say it again? Something about an animal in a room?"

George grinned, "elephant."

Lafayette snapped his fingers and continued, "yes, the elephant in the room, what is Alexander like? He arrived last night didn't he?"

George frowned. "Yeah, he did."

Lafayette furrowed his brows, "what is it? Is he what we feared? A diligent?"

George couldn't help roar with laughter at this. "A diligent!" He guffawed.

Lafayette folded his arms angrily, "well at least my language sounds nice, yours is just grunting."

"No he's not a _delinquent."_

"Oh, so why do you frown so?"

"Let's talk about it in the car okay Laf?"

Lafayette nodded and hastened his step through the car park. George clicked his keys and he opened the car door, getting into the driver's seat. Lafayette jumped into the passenger seat next to him and buckled in his seat-belt.

They drove out onto the freeway in comfortable silence and Lafayette sighed at the familiar surroundings of his second home.

"So, tell me about this boy Alex. He's no delinquent yet your frown at his name?"

George nodded. "Alex hasn't had a very happy life..."

"More than any other 'gamin' in the system?"

George didn't know if that meant orphan or boy or teen but got what Lafayete was saying.

"Yeah, more than most. He wasn't lucky enough to be placed in a home like ours straight away, like you were."

"How many houses has he had?"

"Homes has he stayed in, Laf, he's never owned a house, he's fifteen. He's stayed in nine."

"Oh you get what I mean," he murmured something under his breath and George caught one word, merde.

"Oy! My french isn't totally useless, I know a curse when I hear it."

"L'homme pense il peut comprendre française! Ha!"

 _"The man thinks he can understand french!"_

"I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume you were telling me how much you missed my sharp wit and excellent sense of humour."

Lafayette laughed and George grinned, glad to have Gil back with his halting English and smirked French taunts.

"Anyway," continued Lafayette, "how has his life been hard?"

"We don't really know yet. I don't want you to get worried or anything, he's fine now, but we had to take him to the hospital today."

Lafayette gasped, "merde, porquoi?"

 _"Shit, why?"_

"Well, its a long story."

"It's a long drive."

George smirked, "well, he passed out after breakfast. I haven't had a chance to look at the medical report yet but I have it with me, you can look at it if you like."

George reached into the glove compartment for a few sheets of paper. Before he handed them to his son he spoke again.

"Look, I wouldn't let you see this if I didn't think it necessary but if you're going to be his brother you should know without having to grill him about it. I know you know not to share this with anyone, but I'm just reminding you again."

Lafayette nodded seriously and took the papers carefully. Brushing some hair behind his ear he started to read.

 _Medical report for: Alexander James Hamilton, 7th Aug 2017_

 _Reason of admission: verified unconsciousness for over two minutes, reported panic attack, reported vomiting._

 _Other injuries: minor bruising around left eye, severe bruising on upper shins, upper arms and wrists, chest, neck, stomach, shoulders and back. Defense wounds on knuckles and scratching on palms. Mild concussion due to to mild head trauma on the left side._

 _Scars/ moles/ physical identification: scars on upper and lower back and shoulders from repeated striking, burn scar on bicep from long, thin object. Burn marks from cigarette on shoulders and arms. Mole on left shoulder blade, shin and large freckles on biceps._

 _Physical appearance: dark brown hair, Brown eyes, tanned skin._

 _Ethnicity: Latino Caribbean._

 _Gender: male_

 _Height: 5'5_

 _Weight: 103 lbs_

 _Cause of fainting: exhaustion, drop in blood pressure due to panic attack, malnourishment._

 _Cause of other injuries: suspected past child abuse._

 _Current guardian/s: George Washington, Martha Washington._

 _Parents: Rachel Fawcett (deceased), James Hamilton (whereabouts unknown)_

 _Date of birth: 11th January, 2002_

 _Age: 15.5_

 _Admission time: 7:43_

 _Nurses and doctors that treated the patient: Nathaniel Pendleton (nurse) Abigail swan (nurse) Dr Henry swave (paediatrician), Dr Samantha Warren (psychiatrist)._

 _Diagnosis: generalized anxiety disorder, panic disorder, possible other mental disorders, malnutrition, anaemia._

 _Prescription for Prozac and iron attached._

Lafayette finished reading the report and felt his eyes stinging.

"Ce n'est pas bien. This isn't good."

George nodded, staring straight ahead at the road, hands clenching the steering wheel tightly.

"He's been abused, he's pretty badly beaten up."

"What other injuries has he got?" George looked at Lafayette in concern, "I only know about the ones on his hands and wrists."

"Il y a beaucoup, bruises on his arms, legs, back, chest, stomach and shoulders. It mentions scars from being struck repeatedly on his back and a burn from something unspecified and cigarette ends."

George's jaw clenched shut.

"C'est horrible! Je n'y crois pas! This boy is barely taller than my eleven year old cousin and weighs as much too! He's no threat to anyone!"

"I know son, I know. But people are cruel. Martha and I are trying to help. Though, he's a little scared of me, I have to admit."

Looking at his father, Lafayette wasn't surprised. George was tall, dark and handsome. The intimidating features of his appearance however lay in his shocking height that dwarfed even relatively tall men and muscular body.

Lafayette didn't say it out loud but to an abused kid, George's exterior was something from a nightmare. And yet, he was the kidnest and most gentle man Gilbert had ever met.

His eyes were stern but lit up with mirth at very joke. He had a rather endearing sheepish grin when Martha was scolding him and a safe, protective nature. When he was angry, which had never been at his family, he was truly terrifying.

Once Lafayette had been bullied at school by some classmates for his immigrant status and Principal Adams had refused to take action, despite Lafayette's black eye.

Needless to say, after George was through with him the boys left Mr. Adam's office crying after a personal lecture from George. If it hadn't been so terrifying, it would have been absolutely hilarious.

They pulled into the driveway and got out, George slamming the door slightly too hard after Lafayette and opening up, his keys trembling in his hand with rage.

When Lafayette first met the Washingtons five years ago, this would have scared him half senseless, however now it merely concerned him. Although, Lafayette was glad Alex wasn't present at the moment.

They stepped into the house and as though George sensed Lafayette's concern he swept him into a hug.

"I'm sorry your first night back was like this, but if there's anyone who can be the best brother to Alex, it's you."

Lafayette hugged this father even tighter and George stroked his head.

Lafayette spoke, his voice muffled against George's shoulder. "Tu as un coeur sensible, papa."

 _You've got a soft heart._

George grinned and patted his son's back.

"You've gotten taller young man," he said, holding Lafayette out in front of him.

"And you've gotten some new freckles."

Lafayette shrugged sheepishly, "it's très chaud in Paris right now. Very hot."

George grinned and ushered his son into the kitchen.

"Do you want some hot chocolate before bed, huh?"

"Mon Dieu! Oui, it was too hot to drink it in Paris, but it's strangely chilling here."

"Chilly, son."

"You and your funny words that all sound the same but mean different things..." huffed Lafayette, pouting.

"Oh! Mr chapeau, château, cadeau! As if every French word is completely different!"

 _These words all just mean random things (hat, castle, gift)_

Lafayette laughed and nodded in agreement, "but our words sound better, non!"

George had to smile at that and ushered Gil off to bed with his hot drink and a quick goodnight.

At the stop of the stairs Laf flicked of the light and yelled a "bon nuit!" Down the stairs to his father.

Flopping onto his bed he just managed to strip his jeans off before passing out completely, thoughts of Alex in his mind.

* * *

The next morning Alex and Martha were picked up by George at nine thirty, Alex mercifully back in his regular clothes and conscious.

The drive from the hospital wasn't long but was filled with conversations and questions from the Washingtons about Alex. Mercifully, they were no more prying than his hobbies and favourite colour.

"So, Alex, what kind of things do you like to do?" Asked Martha kindly.

"I uh, I like to write I guess. Essays, letters, debates. I read too."

 _Wow, you are a nerd. No wonder you have no friends._

George spoke now

"That's pretty cool Alex, my job pretty much revolves around debating and writing, so its nice to see someone your age take an interest."

"What do you do?" Asked Alex, feeling guilty he hadn't asked already.

"I'm a politician, not a major one at that, but with the election for Senate coming soon, I'm hoping that will change."

"Oh, what party?" Asked Alex, squeezing his fingers crossed.

"Democratic, I'm one of the very liberal ones they warn you about." He chuckled at this and Alex stopped panicking. This was good, he had left, egalitarian views the same as Alex.

"Cool," Alex started, "My beliefs align with the Democratic party's ones far more than the Republican's. I think it's important we hold the government accountable for the well-being of the country and allow them to change legislation for the better."

 _Yeah, yeah, he knows, spare him the lecture why don't_ _you?_

"I do think it's important not to place blind faith in them however, many politicians hold views that are detrimental to American values of equality. I'm sure you're angered at the recent election results, frankly I'm astounded a business man could ever win election. I guess it shows the place we've come to as a country, that we would trust a person with the most money over a person with the most experience."

Alex paused for breath and immediately regretted his rant.

 _Why does it always come to this? You can't shut up and they get angry. Do you ever learn?_

Before he could apologise George and Martha were laughing loudly.

"Looks like we've got a budding politician on our hands. You've got some strong opinions Alex."

George smiled. "Though I completely agree with you."

Alex nodded sheepishly and grinned, surprised at their lack of anger. Even Katherine, his best host, hand asked him to 'please quiet down' a few times.

They parked the car and got out, Martha opening up and hanging her jacket on the hook in the hall.

Halfway down the hall to the kitchen Alex heard a faint scrambling from upstairs and a frantic French voice.

"Il est ici! Il est ici!"

 _"he's here, he's here!"_

Alex jumped. That must be Gilbert. Oh God, he was going to take one look at him and hate his guts.

He looked expectantly at the stairs and watched as a dishevelled but extremely handsome boy swung like a cat around the banister and slid down the smooth wide rail on his back to land with a clatter in front of Alex.

His hair was tied back in a ponytail and his skin was dark and smooth. Freckles dotted his nose and cheeks. He was quite tall, certainly much taller than Alex and muscled too, showing off his lean biceps in a tank top that read 'marre des criminels en uniforme'

 _Fed up of criminals in uniform._

Alex grinned at this internally and stuttered a tentative "hello..." to the taller boy, cringing at the dissonance his confident interior persona and the tentative one he showed everyone else.

The boy smiled cheerfully and reached out to shake Alex's hand. Alex hesitantly held out his bandaged hand to the boy and shook it firmly. If he was surprised at the injury, he didn't show it and instead grinned down at Alex.

Not pausing to consider if he spoke French or not he commented,

"Il est assez mince et petit mais il serre les mains comme un homme. Quelle drôle!"

 _"He's small and thin but he shakes hand like a man, how funny!"_

Alex stiffened and dropped his hand and responded sharply in the same language.

He knew it was a bad idea, he knew he'd most likely get a punch for it, but again, his mouth just let the cutting words pour out of him, pushing each other to reach the boy the fastest.

"Excuse moi, mais, Je ne pense que ma taille affecte ma virilité, vous êtes trop grands, je ne suis pas trop petit et tu ne derails pas m'insulter car, je suis plus fort que j'en ai l'air."

 _"Excuse me, but, I don't think my size affects my masculinity, you're too tall, I'm not too short. You shouldn't dare insult me, because I'm stronger than I look."_

If Alex had had a camera in that moment to capture the expression on Lafayette's face, the result would have been priceless. The taller boy stood stock still for a moment, eyes wide with a mix of embarrassment and utter awe.

"Tu... tu parles français?" He finally managed to stutter, as if he couldn't believe a five foot five, bastard foster kid could possibly speak French. Or maybe that was just how Alex interpreted the silence.

"Oui... ma mère etait française."

As if a switch had been flicked Lafayette's face burst into a huge grin and he rushed forward to swing Alex into a hug.

"Ce gamin est fou!" He cried.

Alex stiffened and crouched down, wrapping his arms around himself, expecting the inevitable blows for his insolence.

George reached out a hand to stop Lafayette from jumping on the boy and pushed him gently back.

Lafayette stopped and mentally slapped himself when he looked down at the petrified boy.

Slowly, he knelt down and put his arm loosely around Alex's shoulder, making sure the hold felt comforting rather than restraining.

"Alexander, je suis très desole, I didn't mean to give you a fright. You're okay here, it's okay."

Alex tilted his head to look Lafayette in the eyes and for the first time Laf noticed how _pretty_ the boy was. That was probably a weird observation to make given the situation, but he couldn't help think it. He noticed those sorts of things, occupational hazard of being a fashion forward, pansexual teenager

Alex's eyes were large and emotive, framed by long dark lashes and a deep brown in colour, like something earthy and warm. His skin was a dark tan and faint rouge and freckles from the sun decorated the space across his nose and cheeks.

His face, although too thin and set anxiously, was all together not unlike the face of John Laurens, one of Lafayette's closest friends. Not so much in shape or form, but in the shade of tan they shared and the deep brown of their eyes.

Alex blinked a few times in what Lafayette read as a mix of embarrassment and shock.

 _Shocked that you're not about to beat him..._

Lafayette's stomach squirmed guiltily and he stood up along with Alex, giving him a quick, brotherly pat on the shoulder.

Martha and George had watched the entire exchange with a variety of emotions, Martha who had known Alex could speak French, barely managed to keep in a laugh at her husband and son's expression upon discovering Alex's confidence with the language.

Both their hearts soared however when Lafayette had crouched down to comfort Alex, and both has stood on silently, not wanting intervene in this moment of bonding.

Martha clapped her hands togetger, pretending not to notice the way Alex flinched, and smiled.

"Well, I think it's time I get started on breakfast, Alex, I think you could so with eating something, you picked at that hospital food last night. Though I can't say I blame you."

 _Wait, Lafayette knows about the hospital? Why else would Martha mention it in front of him so casually? Shit, he thinks you're a freak. A broken, sick, orphan, freak. They all do. You're just a bother. I bet they wished you just died yesterday. Maybe you should have._

Alex stumbled back a little and let out a tiny whimper, unheard by anyone. He hadn't thought like that since... no. He wouldn't think about that. He wasn't going to remember that.

Pushing himself forward he stumbled after the family and into the kitchen.

"Alex, dear, you should sit down, you look tired."

Martha was taking in his pained expression with worry, she gestured at the chair.

He nodded and slid into it, closing his eyes and letting the morning sun stream through the kitchen window and warm his face. What seemed like only a few seconds later he was being shaken gently at the shoulder.

"Alex, Alex, réveillez-vous."

He opened his eyes and jumped, feeling the stares of the entire Washington family on him.

"Sorry... I guess I drifted off." He apologised, hoping to God they wouldn't be angry.

"Please don't be mad, I'm sorry."

George and Martha looked at each other, Geirge spoke up, "look, Alex, no one is angry you fell asleep. You had a tiring day yesterday. It's no wonder you're fatigued."

Alex nodded quickly and sat up straighter, correcting his usually poor posture. Pace had hated it when he stood up straight, he had always wanted Alex to seem as small as he could be, as beaten down as possible. As a result, his slouch was pretty habitual.

He sat in silence as Martha and George brought the breakfast over, thankfully they had put the dishes in the middle, so Alex could take as little as possible.

He waited until everyone else had taken a sizeable portion of the scrambled eggs and bacon before taking a small serving of the eggs and the smallest strip of bacon he could see.

Slowly, between gulps of water he made his way through the eggs, trying not to think of all the boys back at the foster home, what they would say if they saw him now.

 _Greedy, ungrateful, burden, undeserving._

Shutting this voice out he continued, nearly halfway through his small serving. Deciding he had eaten enough of the eggs, he turned his attention to the bacon.

Then the memories crashed over him like freezing ice water.

Bacon had been Mr. Paces favourite. That wasn't exactly a unique trait, everyone seemed to love the food, but he could still remember how the smell every Saturday morning made his empty stomach feel even more hollow.

One morning, Mr. Pace had left the room to get changed as the food on the pan cooked.

Alex, sensing an opportunity to relive himself from the unbearbale hunger pangs that racked his body, had carefully stepped his way over all the floor boards that creaked (he had memorized the noisy ones so he could move around quietly).

Making his way into the kitchen he had rifled through the bottom draw under the sink for a minute before finding the granola bars stashed there. Grabbing two, he had quickly crept back towards the kitchen door and had gotten as far as the fridge when Pace came in again, fully dressed.

He remembered the smirk on his foster father's face when he had seen the granola bars clutched tight in his bony hand. Pace had taken an ominous step toward him, breath smelling strongly of beer, even though it couldn't have have been past 9:00 am.

He remembered how much taller the man had been than him, how much stronger. The way his hands had curled around his neck and slammed him into the wall had the casual air another man might apply to picking up a jacket or opening a cupboard.

Pace had snarled angrily at him, "so you think you can steal from me, huh? You think you can sneak into my kitchen like the little rat you are and steal from me?"

Alex had shook his head frantically and dropped the granola bars, letting them hit the floor with a light thump. Pace had laughed at the fourteen year old struggling in front of him, his legs kicking helplessly.

The first punch in the gut came like a sledge hammer, the following ones battering into him like stones in an avalanche. He remembered sliding onto the floor and curling up against himself, trying to brace himself for whatever pain Pace decided to inflict on him next.

A strong kick in the ribs had forced him out of his ball, leaving him too stunned to curl back in on himself.

Pace had just laughed as he lay there, taking the kicks like rag doll, too weary to even try to defend himself. He remembered how he thought it was all over when the kicks stopped. How he had gasped in relief and let the tears in his eyes finally well up and flow.

Pace had crouched down next to him, holding something large and black in his left hand. He had grabbed Alex's arm roughly and held him in place as he pushed the burning frying pan to the boy's bicep.

Alex remembered how be had been to shocked to react instantly, how it had taken the sizzle and steam to rise from his arm before he had started to scream.

The smell of bacon and human flesh burning had melded together and it struck Alex that they weren't that different after all, was there a difference between human and animal flesh anyway? He didn't think so.

 **Sorry this was so long! I apologise for pushing my political agenda through fanfiction lol. I guess I'm a scary feminist leftie!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Hey! Sorry for a few mistakes I made with the French last time, I'm trying but it's not my first language. However, a writer by the name of Siffly helped me out! They write super cool fanfictions in french and were so helpful.**

 **Anyway, thanks for all the positive reviews, they make my day! Just a question for any other writers on this site reading this, do you find when you update your story it doesn't move to the top of the page and stays where it was before? This happens all the time and I hate it! It annoys me because my views just half when people don't see my updates! Very annoying...**

 **Trigger warnings: self harm, panic attack, medication, allusion to suicide**

Alex was jerked out of his melancholy when he felt a light tap on his shoulder, his eyes snapping open and his fingers clenching around his cutlery so tight it felt as though the skin across his knuckles would split.

"Alex... you okay there?"

It was Lafayette, his silvery french accent was tinged with concern.

Alex looked up and saw every eye on the table trained on him

 _No, please, don't look at me. Don't touch me. Don't talk to me._

He glanced down at his hands and only then noticed how much they were shaking. The sound of the metal of his fork rattling against his mug was far too loud and pressed against his ears like an incessant alarm, warning him. Of what, Alexander didn't know.

The silence in the kitchen continued to weigh down on the air around him like treacle. A cough sounded dimly, as though through many layers of clothing.

Alex was suddenly very aware of his heart pounding in him. Had it always been that loud? Like the beating wings of a caged bird.

In an instant he was back, again sitting at the kitchen table in front of searching stares and scrutiny, like a deer in headlights.

"I-I'm fine." His voice sounded thick and false, like someone doing a poor imitation of him.

George and Martha looked at each other and Lafayette spoke again.

"Would you like to go for a nap Alex? You look tired."

His French accent was more pronounced when he was worried.

Alex nodded slowly and stood up, legs buckling almost instantly as white flashed in his vision. He slumped in his chair and George stood suddenly, causing him to flinch and curl up, trembling knees pressed to chest.

Martha came around the table to him and stroked his head gently, letting Alex lean into her touch. Lafayette was watching on, helpless and confused, wanting to help but not exactly knowing how.

 _Qu'est qui ce passe?_

George came back to the table in quick strides, his posture stiff. In his hand he carried the two boxes of pills they'd collected at the hospital and a tall glass of water. Sitting down next to Alex he silently popped the sliver foil and placed the Prozac and iron in front of the trembling boy.

Alex took a few minutes to calm down and slowed his breathing, pushing himself from the edge of a panic attack. His hands still shaking violently he picked up the two pills and with a flat palm, tipped them into his mouth and gulped down the water behind them.

"I think those should help you calm down a little, along with some rest."

George's voice was gruff and for a moment, Alex mistook it for angered. However, turning he saw his foster father's jaw was clenched tight and his eyes were shining slightly.

Alex stood up again and fought to keep himself on his feet, blinking back the spots in his vision.

"You'll be okay going up those stairs alone Alex?"

He nodded vacantly and brought his glass of water to the sink, rinsing it quickly and putting it slowly back in the cupboard. Walking back to the door he stopped at the kitchen table.

"Thanks Martha, George..." he twitched his lips into a faint smile.

They smiled warmly back and Alex turned to Lafayette.

"Tu as la chance d'avoir leur, ce sont de bonnes personnes."

Lafayette smiled softly and nodded, glancing at Martha and George who looked politely confused.

Without another word, Alex turned his back to the family and walked unsteadily back down the hallway and upstairs, clutching the rail tightly and cursing his shaking legs.

Downstairs in the kitchen, the Washintons conversed in hushed tones.

"What did he say Gil? You know how appalling my French is."

Lafayette smirked. "Tu as la chance d'avoir leur, ce sont de bonnes personnes. Basically; 'you are lucky to have them, they are good people.'"

Martha blinked back surprise and felt her heart ache for Alex, wishing he had come to them sooner, wishing people in their world were kinder.

George stood up and put his arm around Lafayette and Martha.

"We are lucky to have you, Gil, and we are lucky to have Alex. If I didn't have you running around and annoying me everyday, I'm sure I'd go mad with the work at the office."

Laf laughed and flicked his father playfully on the arm.

"I shall go and check on Alex soon, yes?"

George nodded thoughtfully, "yeah that's a good idea, son. He should get comfortable with you. Not that he's exactly comfortable with us at all either, but you're his age, you plan to introduce him to your friends. It's good he has someone he can relate to here."

"I will go to my room, Mr Geoffrey est fou! Crazy! He's given us a seven thousand word essay project for September and I want to type three thousand ce soir."

The French boy ran up the stairs to his bedroom and flung himself onto the beanbag he'd bought two summers ago.

Internally promising to start the essay in fifteen minutes, he grabbed his phone and looked at the new messages from John.

 _John (5hrs ago): Yo! Laf! Back in the states! Missed me?_

 _Lafrançaise (Just now): my friend! We texted last night!_

 _John (just now): ah, can I not greet my most exotic European friend, back from his travels?_

 _Lafrançaise(Just now): I am not exotic! There are 67 million people in France!_

 _Lafrançaise(Just now): Alex has arrived also._

 _John (Just now): Oh my god yeah! What's he like?_

 _Lafrançaise (Just know): that is, how I think you say, a full question._

 _John (Just now): a loaded question. Nvm, what do you mean?_

 _Lafrançaise(Just now): not quite how we expected. He is no delinquent. Very shy._

 _John (Just now): rather shy than violent right?_

 _Lafrançaise (Just now): it is not good, 'John Laurens when he sees a cute boy' shy._

 _John (Just now): standoffish? (I'm going to ignore that)_

 _Lafrançaise(Just now): no. I guess I should tell you._

 _John (Just now): yeah?_

 _Lafrançaise (Just now): well, maman et papa took him to hospital yesterday. He's been abused and he's anxious all the time because of it._

 _John (Just now): shit. . . Is he okay?_

 _Lafrançaise (just now): I don't know. He's sleeping now. Got nervous breakfast and took (what do you call them? Little ovals?)_

 _John (Just now): pills. So, if we hang tomorrow do you want to invite him or leave him to rest?_

 _Lafrançaise (Just now): I'll invite him. Je ne sais pas. He might not want to come. I have to go, aurevoir mon ami!_

 _John (Just now): sounds cool. Bye my friend!_

 _John left the chat_

 _Lafrançaise left the chat_

Laf turned off his phone and went to his desk, preparing to type out his essay but still plauged by thoughts of Alex.

* * *

Alex lay on his bed, turned on his side. He was staring at the Prozac and iron on his table across the room. He wasn't sure it was a good idea for him to have pills handy, then again, he wasn't exactly about to go and talk about that with the Washingtons.

 _They'd think you were a freak. You are a freak. If there was anything stopping you from being kicked out, telling them that would be the last straw. You'd be back at Pace within the day._

Alex turned on his other side, refusing to look at the pills, praying to God, to whatever was or wasn't up there, that he didn't do anything stupid.

It was only ten milligrams. But in a week it would be twenty, then thirty. If he went up to forty and there was enough meds in the box for three months, that was a whole lot of pills.

Pushing these thoughts out of his mind, he turned his attention to his bags which he hadn't yet bothered to unpack.

Rummaging through his admittedly meagre possessions he quickly found his small black note book, the 13th in a collection of books that he had been writing in for almost two years.

The rest were tucked away somewhere, or thrown out. He had only chosen five to bring with him to the Washingtons.

Opening to the next free page and writing in the date, he thought of the discussion he'd had with George in the car. Biting the end of his biro for a moment, he started to scribble down on the paper, words flowing out of his mind like a stream that soon swelled to a rushing river.

 _In reviewing the administration of our latest president, Donald. J. Trump, I am conscious of many errors in the biased and unprofessional measures of staffing and delegation that have been made. It seems to me that the current government is altogether backstabbing and egocentric, a reflection of The President's less than self-sacrificing character. One can only assume, in the sixth month of his office, the Whitehouse has descended into the kill or be killed state one might associate with the vicious court of a Tudor king, rather than the office of the 45th president..._

Alex finished this rather cutting essay nearly two hours later, forgetting totally about the nap he was supposed to be having. Culminating it in a final, sneering insult he scratched down his signature with the last traces of ink in his pen and closed his notebook, eyes heavy with exhaustion.

He couldn't be sure, but he made an informed guess of around 4,000 words in that essay. He had written so much on the political situation in America for the past few years, he could probably pass the SAT American politics exam easily.

Wondering vaguely what high school he would attend for his sophomore year, he lay his head down on top of his notebook and closed his eyes, not even bothering to kick off his shoes before letting sleep welcome him with open arms.

Lafayette had finished around two thousand words on his computer and reviewed the first thousand words when it occurred to him that he had promised to check in on Alex.

Saving his work and deciding to continue the correcting tomorrow, he logged off and walked out of his room and on to the landing.

Not wanting to disturb Alex by knocking, but wanting to make sure he was getting some well needed sleep, he slowly pushed open the door of his bedroom and peeked in, careful not to let the hinges creak.

Alex was fast asleep on his bed, eyes shut and mouth closed. It was perhaps the most peaceful Lafayette had ever seen him. His dark eyes, usually filled with worry or a skittish sense of watchfulness, were closed and thick lashes rested on his cheeks.

Despite Alex's less than impressive height, the contrast between his long limbs and slender body made him almost willowy looking and graceful. It was a shame he spent most of his time trying to make himself as small as possible.

Shutting the door again gently he made his way back to his bedroom and decided to take a nap as well. It was nearing one o'clock and his late arrival last night had tired him.

Collapsing onto his bed, which was white with subtle blue and red details, he drifted into a unexpectedly peaceful, but nevertheless welcome, sleep.

When six o'clock came, the usual time for dinner, Martha called up to the boys to come down for something to eat. As was per usual, she heard the tell tale scrambling of Gilbert and heard him run unceremoniously down the stairs.

All was silent, however, from the side of the hallway Alex had been sleeping. Climbing the stairs, she knocked gently on his door though, eventually receiving no answer, she allowed herself in.

Smiling to herself, she walked over to Alex who was still deep in his slumber, she pulled something out from underneath his cheek and noticed a pen till clutched loosely in his hand. She turned the battered notebook over in her hands and took in the bend edges of its cover and the loose pieces of paper hastily stapled to the back page.

Not wanting to pry, she placed the book on his bedside table and gently nudged him awake.

"Alex, dear, it's dinner time now."

He stirred and nodded groggily at her, rolling over onto his feet.

Suddenly, he stiffened.

"My note book." He said, scanning the bed. Where is it?"

Martha gestured towards the bedside table.

"I just moved it out from under your face. It looked uncomfortable. I didn't look through it, don't worry."

Alex relaxed and smiled. "Of course, thank you."

They walked together downstairs in a semi-awkward silence and sat themselves down at the dinner table where the food again had been layed out in huge dishes in the centre to take from.

Sipping at his glass of water and waiting until everyone had taken their portions, Alexander fiddled with his sleeve.

The Prozac seemed to be doing something. He felt less... tense, but there was a strange tinge of something else now in the back of his mind. He couldn't quite explain it but it felt almost as though he was running nearer and nearer to the edge of a cliff, but had no way to stop himself when he met the sheer drop.

Focusing instead on the food he glanced at the Washingtons to see if they had taken their portions yet, which they had. He caught George's eye who didn't smile but glanced at the food and then back at Alex in an encouraging manner.

He lifted the salad tongs and pulled some of the food onto his plate. Iceberg lettuce with cherry tomatoes, sweetcorn, grated carrots and some other vegetables garnished with some kind of dressing.

Next to the salad a steaming plate of grilled halloumi and vegetables sat. He cautiously lifted a small piece of the cheese onto his plate and began to eat. This food was good. Safe. It didn't remind him of Pace, or the Johnson's, or his real family. It was just... Washington.

"So, Alex." It was George speaking.

"How did you come to learn French?"

Alex started slightly and put down his knife and fork, not trusting himself to be able to make small talk and eat at the same time.

"Oh. My mother was french by descent. We spoke it at home along with English and Spanish, besides, The Caribbean has a large French population and a lot of French influence left from colonial times. More so in Haiti or... Guadeloupe, but in Nevis too."

George nodded and cut into a large piece of halloumi.

"Indeeed, well, it's very admirable to have such proficient language skills, especially if you're considering any law or political related studies in the future."

Alex nodded quickly and George continued.

"Have you ever considered any SAT's in those subjects?"

Alex thought about that for second, "yeah... I'd like to do American politics and history. English language and literature as well. Maybe French."

Lafayette spoke next, "choose those subjects! You will be in class with me and John!"

Alex smiled slightly and continued eating, the room settling into comfortable silence as everyone ate.

Soon their plates were cleared and Martha was passing round dessert - a small portion of ice cream and fruit.

Staring down at his serving, Alex shuddered. It was hard enough eating the halloumi and salad, a second course seemed unnecessary and frankly, he was too full anyway.

Nibbling at the end of a strawberry he listened to the idle chit chat that he had learned was commonplace in the Washington household.

Soon the rest of the table had finished almost all of their food, including desert. Alex washed his plate next to Martha and felt a sense of guilt squirm in his stomach as he watched George wrapping cling film over his untouched food and sliding it into the freezer.

Still, he thought it was probably better than them wasting it.

"Oh Alex," it was George, "I didn't ask, how is the medication? Do you feel any better?"

Alex started a little and responded, "oh, um, it's fine yeah. I don't feel it that much but it's only ten milligrams I guess..."

George nodded, "we'll go around to the drug store next week, pick up the next prescription."

Alex nodded and wondered for the first time how much this was costing the Washingtons. They had to pay his hospital bill, for his food, now for his pills too.

Alex must have looked uncomfortable then because Martha spoke up.

"Alex? Do you want to go back upstairs or stay down here with us. After dinner we normally sit down and watch something together, or have a discussion about politics. Something along those lines."

Normally this would have sounded quite appealing to Alex but right now that uneasy feeling had crept back into his mind and he still felt such crushing guilt around the Washingtons that sitting with them for any longer sounded like torture.

Alex slowly shook his head. "Is it okay if I go up instead... only if that's okay. I'm not demanding or anything. Sorry."

Martha shook her head.

"No, no, you're not demanding at all! To tell you the truth, we'll probably just watch another one of Gil's French films."

Alex nodded and stood in the door way as Martha walked back into the sitting room. Lafayette was fiddling with the wires on the box and cursing under his breath in french.

George was leant back on the sofa reading the paper, occasionally calling Martha over to show her an article or picture. The two would study it together for a while, intellectual equals, before Martha would return back to helping Laf.

Alex wondered what it was like to be part of a family like this. A family that didn't hit you or starve you, or whisper snide remarks about you when they thought you wouldn't hear.

He thought of his own home for a moment. It had never been like this but he could still remember the scent on his mother's perfume, like the thousands of raindrops that rattled their window panes on rainy days. Her hands had always been soft and he sometimes still felt the sensation of her hand stroking his face.

Shaking himself out of this nostalgia he turned away from the sitting room and traipsed back upstairs into his room.

Alex sighed and clicked the lock on his door, relaxing as soon as it was secure. This was better, safe.

 _Wow, they only time you're not an anxious mess is when your literally locked inside a room. You're going to love the psych ward. It's where you'll end up eventually._

Alex couldn't be bothered to take these thoughts away, instead wallowing in them.

He wasn't part of the Washington family, he never would be. They had eachother, they didn't need another burden. Because that was all he was. A drain on their money and patience.

Alex rummaged through his bag and pulled out a small metal tin. He walked into the bathroom and slid down against the tiled wall and rolled back the sleeve of his hoodie.

When he was done, Alex put the box of razors back in his bag and changed so he was just wearing a shirt with his boxers. He flopped onto his bed and fell in to a restless, fitful sleep. More than once waking up sweating and gasping, unable to breathe.

The next morning Alex awoke to the feeling of something wet pressing against his cheek. He felt his face and looked at his fingers.

They were dark red; blood.

Looking down at the bed he swore and sat up immediately. His arm had lain next to his face as he slept and unbeknownst to him, blood had leaked over night onto his sheet leaving a sizeable stain where his arm had been.

Stumbling to the bathroom, Alex scrubbed the blood off his face and plucked up the courage to look down at his arm. He winced, not good. Gently washing around the cuts, he hissed as they stung painfully.

Before figuring out what he could do about the sheet, Alex pulled on a fresh pair of boxers and a new shirt with his usual dark blue jeans and hoodie.

Sighing he looked at the clock. It was 5:55. Good, he had time to try and wash this stain out before anyone woke up.

He pulled the sheet off the bed and walked downstairs to the kitchen, where he figured there would be cleaning products.

He turned on the tap as quietly and as cold as he could and filled up a bowl with water. He knew the routine of getting blood out of things well by now. Water, scrub, soap, scrub, brush fabric, dry.

He found some detergent under the sink. The same brand Pace used, he noted, and poured some in to the water. Working quickly, he scrubbed and saw the stain start to fade slowly.

"Alexandre? Mon ami? C'est trop tôt le matin! Qu'est-ce tu fais?"

 _My friend, it's really early, what are you doing?_

Alex jumped and whipped round.

"Rien. Nothing, go back to sleep."

He didn't know what to do, his lungs were tightening, his vision was flickering.

"Alex, qu'est que c'est?" He motioned to the bowl in the sink.

 _What's this?_

Lafayette walked over and examined the bowl in confusion. His eyes widened when he saw the large red stain against the smooth white fabric.

"Alexandre... Why is there blood?"

Alex didn't know what to say, his eyes were stinging, though not as painfully as his arm, and his breath was coming faster and faster now.

"Alexandre!" Lafayette cried, he grabbed Alex's wrists tightly in his strong grip.

He stopped abruptly when Alex cried out in pain and flinched. Lafayette looked slowly down at his grip on the boy's arm. He pushed Alex sleeve up to his elbow and stared. Alex merely stood there, breathing getting faster.

He yanked his arm from Lafayette's grasp and slid down against the kitchen wall. He buried his head into his knees and drew in deep breath.

"Alexandre! You calm yourself okay, count your breathing. Je vais la laver."

 _I will wash it._

Alex drew in ragged breaths and whimpered against his trembling knees. Lafayette was going to punish him - Alex assumed he had the authority to do so in this house. He tried to count his breaths, an attempt to steal himself for the inevitable blows he was about to endure.

A few minutes later Lafayette was done. He wrung the water out of the sheet and hung it on the back of a chair, facing the rising sun.

"Deep breaths Alex, je suis ici, I am not going to leave."

Alex nodded and rested his head against Lafayette's shoulder.

"You're- you're not mad?"

"Non, of course not."

They stayed like that for a while, watching the dawn creep in like the tide across the tiles. The smell of laundry detergent and friendship was thick in the air.

"We should put a bandage on your arm, Alexandre."

"Okay..."

Lafayette pulled a roll of bandage and some plasters from the cupboard and pulled up Alex's sleeve. He kept his face calm and expressionless as he helped wrap the cuts.

When they were done Alex pulled back his sleeve and they went to check how dry the sheet was. They decided it was okay to put back on his bed and together they spent a comfortably silent few minutes making Alex's bed.

They sat on it together.

"Alex, I will not ask you to stop or take whatever you use. That could only make things worse, I just want you to know it's not your only choice. You can talk with me."

"Okay Laf."

"Do you want to talk about it now?"

"Not right now."

"Okay."

They stayed in silence for a while until eventually they heard stirring in Martha and George's room.

"Ils sont éveillé."

 _They're awake._

Alex's eyes suddenly widened and he gripped Lafayette's bicep.

"Laf, please, don't tell George and Martha. Please, they'll kick me out. They'll be so mad, please laf."

He looked so frightened that Lafayette embraced him again.

"Mon ami, I will not tell them. Though if I did, they woukd not kick you out or be mad. However, I will keep the secret."

Alex nodded quickly and calmed somewhat. Neither of them said it, but they could both feel the rapid beating of Alex's heart and the beginnings of a friendship.

 **Hey guys. Thanks for getting this far. To be clear this is not a Lafayette x Hamilton story, it's a slow burn lams.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Hey guys, thanks for reading my fanfiction this far. I wanted to hear your opinion on something, do you think this fanfiction should be an M? It's not graphic in sex or gore, and I don't plan it to be, but some of the themes are mature. Review your opinion, I'd love to hear it.**

 **Trigger warnings: very brief mention of self harm, internalized homophobia, medication, panic attack.**

 **Lams pickles: I hope you can see this update, you're not an account holder so I don't really know what to do. This is the seventh chapter.**

That morning Alex and Lafayette went downstairs before George and Martha. They emptied the bowl in the sink and washed it before putting it away in the cupboard. Neither of them spoke to each other much but they didn't mind. It was a quiet morning and the sun was bathing everything in a silent, silver light.

They had just sat down on the expensive leather sofa when Martha and George walked in together, both still in pyjamas.

Alex couldn't help but admire the couple. They were more similar than you would think and spent almost all their time together. Equally as smart as eachother, Alex sometimes came down in the evenings for some water to find them pouring over books and newspapers together, avidly discussing politics. He supposed they were some of the lucky few who'd found someone so like themselves.

Lafayette grinned as they walked in, sleepy looking and bleary eyed.

"And they say us teenagers sleep late!"

George rolled his eyes and retorted, "and I bet Alex woke you. If you had the choice you wouldn't wake up until two PM."

"Of course!"

Martha laughed and pushed her hair out of her eyes, tying the bouncing curls back with a bright hair wrap.

"What do you want for breakfast? George and I will start on something now."

Alex looked at Lafayette and shrugged but then spoke in French to his friend.

"Je ne veux pas de bacon, ne demandes pas porquoi."

 _I don't want bacon, don't ask why._

Lafayette grinned.

"Maybe toast with eggs, or, _oh!_ Pancakes! Please can we have pancakes? S'il vous plaît!"

Martha grinned and nodded, "okay, I know I'm going to regret it later though when you're bouncing off the walls due to a maple syrup sugar rush."

"Ah, ma mère, you know me too well."

He and Lafayette sat at the kitchen table as George and Martha got out the flour, eggs, milk and other ingredients. They chatted in French for a while about Lafayette's time in Paris and the high school he went to, just ten minutes from the house.

"Il s'appelle uh, the Virginian continental high school. C'est un college mixte, and it's normal for a public school. We'll start our sophomore year in September."

Alex nodded. "The high school I went to in New York was kinda crap, pretty much no extra curriculars, bad electives and a school paper that published like one article a year "

Lafayette was about to clap his hand on Alex's shoulder but stopped himself quickly, opting instead to pretend he was tapping on the table.

"You'll not be dissatisfied with our clubs and societies, and our electives are good also."

Alex grinned, "what kind of subjects are doing this year?"

"The same as the ones you listed yesterday, John and Hercules too, but they are both taking art as well. I'm also taking speech and debate to help improve my English."

"Cool."

Martha and George were now walking over to the table, holding two plates each of pancakes topped with maple syrup, whipped cream and fruit.

When the portion was placed in front of him it was all Alex could do but concentrate on not immediately tucking in.

He was so used to having very little breakfast, and any meal in general, that the desperation to get something in him was overwhelming.

He remembered the boys' home he'd lived in at age 13, where food was scarce and every one had to carefully guard every they'd been given for fear it would be taken away and that he would go hungry that day.

It had almost been Dickensian, a sort of Oliver Twist reminiscent atmosphere that would have been laughable if the hunger pangs hadn't hurt so much.

Slowly, he picked up a trembling fork and began to eat in an as steady and normal manner he could.

It was delicious.

Alex had long since lost any partiality to taste but this was undeniably amazing. He savoured the bitterness of the raspberries and the sweet syrup, as well as the unusual feeling if having good food in his stomach.

Lafayette spoke through a mouthful of food, his voice not muffled at all as he seemed to have mastered the art of eating and talking.

"Maman, papa, this is so good! If you had a restaurant it would get trois _Michelin_ étoiles!"

They both smiled appreciatively and Lafayette spoke again.

"I was going to meet up with John and Herc today, is that okay? I also wondered if Alex wanted to come."

Alex jumped at his name and put down his knife and fork.

"Uh... I... yeah, sure."

Martha nodded thoughtfully, "okay, yeah. I'm sure John and Hercules can't wait to meet Alex anyway, maybe you should all go to the mall together, get your school stuff."

Lafayette nodded, "that's a good idea. John might not like it, however, if he comes back to school with that same awful pair of sneakers, I will scream."

Alex stayed silent. There was one problem here, he had about two dollars in loose change in his bag, nothing else. He was fine with his t shirts and old pair of jeans, that was what he had always worn, however, somehow, something told him that the Washingtons wouldn't be content with that.

They all finished breakfast and with a quick thanks to Martha and George, Alex followed Lafayette up the stairs to text John and get ready.

 _Lafrançaise (Just now): can you be at the mall in twenty minutes? We're gonna get school stuff, Alex is coming also. Tell herc_

 _John (Just now): Oh! Okay! I'll tell Herc, see you in twenty!_

Lafayette slid his phone back into his pocket and walked to the mirror.

"John and Herc will meet us at the mall in twenty minutes, yes. Don't worry, they are very kind and have been waiting to meet you."

Alex nodded slowly, feeling the anxiety creeping back into his chest. Remembering he had forgotten to take his pills that morning he told Lafayette to wait and raced to his room.

Dry swallowing them and rinsing out his mouth with water he hurried back to Lafayette's room where the boy had tied up his huge hair and was curling his eyelashes.

"I don't wear makeup, but I think putting in some effort makes a difference. Non?"

Alex nodded, not having a problem with this but suddenly feeling very self conscious of his ragged appearance.

Oh well, there was nothing he could do about that anyway.

Lafayette grabbed a denim jacket off his chair and slid it on, grabbing some keys off the dresser next and patting his pocket for presumably his wallet or bus card. When he was sure he had everything he headed down the stairs followed by a slightly less enthusiastic Alex.

Martha met them at the end of the stairs with a list of supplies Alex assumed were for Laf, however, when he checked the list over he saw a few things that made his anxiety worsen.

 _Clothes for Alex_

 _Hygiene products Alex & Gil_

 _Stationary Alex & Gil_

 _Text books for Alex & Gil_

 _Shoes for Alex_

 _Anything else needed for school or things Alex needs._

Alex gulped, "uh, Mrs Washington," he tended to call her this when he was nervous. "I don't have any way to pay for clothes of stationary or anything really."

He squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his fist tight.

She frowned, "Laf didn't tell you? He has a debit card with him, he'll buy whatever you need. We're your foster parents Alex, we have to buy you clothes when you need them and things for school."

"Oh... you don't have to, honestly. I can do with the clothes I have now and get some text books from the library."

"Don't be silly Alex, those jeans are practically falling off you and those rips clearly aren't fashion statements."

Alex nodded and had to agree his selection of clothes was insufficient.

"Martha, thanks so much for this. You don't have to. But thanks."

She scoffed and playfully waved them away.

"I know, I know, now go, you'll be late otherwise."

* * *

John and Herc sat at the fountain in the mall, chatting animatedly as they waited for Lafayette and Alex to make an appearance. They had met up while Laf had been away but were looking forward to the whole gang being back together, plus meeting Lafayette's new foster brother.

"What do you think Alex will be like?" Herc was absentmindedly running his finger tips through the water in the fountain.

"I'm not too sure. Lafayette told me over text yesterday that he was pretty shy. He said he'd had a hard life." Mused John, euphemistically.

"Oh?" Hercules looked up, shaking some droplets of water off his fingers.

"He didn't say much, I imagine we'll find more out today."

"I'm just looking forward to seeing Laf again, man."

Herc then clapped John so hard on the shoulder so he fell dangerously close to the water, maintaining his balance only due to his friend's strong grip on his shoulder.

"Herc, I swear to God if you had dropped me I would have killed you."

His friend laughed and he held up his hands in mock surrender.

"But I didn't!"

John nodded, "thank God for me these."

He patted Herc's large, muscled biceps jokingly.

"So, tell me, I bet you're really looking forward to seeing Laf again." Smirked John.

Hercules didn't blush - he wasn't the type to, but he rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly and refused to look at John.

"Ah, come on, you've liked him for nearly a year, it's time to make a move! I am _sure_ he feels the same way."

Hercules shrugged and his silence told John he didn't want to talk about Laf.

Suddenly they both heard an excited yell from the entrance of the mall. Before either of then had time to recognise the bubbly French accent they were simultaneously being swept into a hug.

"Mes amis! Vous me manquiez! Mon dieu!"

Standing back a little and giving them room, the excited french teen grinned down at them, just as they remembered him, if not slightly taller.

That was when John saw him.

Alex was standing a few paces behind the trio, awkwardly clutching his arm.

And he was... He was extremely good looking...

Alex was small and slight, with a pointed pace and long, brown hair so dark it was nearly black, swept into a messy bun. He had huge dark eyes and long lashes, their expression hinted at something wary, almost like an animal who sensed a trap but couldn't quite locate it.

His skin was tanned and his cheekbones high, he seemed at least partly Latino and his posture was nervous, as though he was trying to shrink down into himself.

 _Damn._

Lafayette turned around, following John's line of vision.

"Ah, yes, this is Alexander Hamilton, just call him Alex."

"Hey," he said, raising his hand awkwardly, "it's nice to meet you guys. Laf talks about you a lot."

John fought back a grin, of course he did.

Laf would talk about anything to anyone, he probably had a whole mental reservoir of anecdotes about the three of them to bust out in awkward silences.

"So, maman has given Alex and I a list of things we will need. I think our first stop should be stationary."

Herc and John nodded, the former clapping Laf hard on the shoulder and walking in the middle of the group as they made their way to _American Stationary_ , Alex on the far right, silent.

Alex couldn't help but stare at John as they walked to the stationary store. There was something magnetic about his presence, Alexander couldn't seem to fight off the urge to wtach him.

He had curly, unruly hair and millions of freckles, a medium height and a lean, toned body. Alex didn't think had never really looked at anyone in the way he was at John now, but it wasn't a bad sort of strange...

He couldn't take his eyes off him.

They walked into the shop and were greeted immediately with a display of tenth grade Math and English text books for their school district.

"Ahhh! My eyes, I'm having flashbacks to school!"

Herc held his hands out in front of himself, like a vampire warding off a crucifix. Everyone laughed and Alex even managed a grin.

They each grabbed a Math and English text book and headed over to the stationary.

Alex examined the selection carefully, looking at the beautiful display of fountain pens. Lafayette seemed to have noticed him staring.

"You can get one. I have one at home, maman won't mind."

Alex looked incredulously at Lafayette and slowly picked up a beautiful dark brown pen with a silver nib, and a small pack of ink refills. He put them into the basket next to the text books and Hercules whistled in appreciation.

"Nice pen, you write a lot Alex?"

"Yeah, I guess so." He tried a smile.

"That's pretty cool, I write a bit too, mostly on my laptop though. All three of us are in speech and debate."

Alex livened up a bit at that.

"Really! Wow, I've been wanting to be in a debate club since I was twelve!"

John grinned at that, "you'll get along well with Angelica then, she adores anything to do with passionately expressing her opinion."

The three boys chuckled slightly and Alex nodded, wide eyed.

They each grabbed a pack of ordinary biros and some pencils and rubbers before moving on to another section of the store, this on full of notebooks and folders.

About fifteen minutes later they emerged from the shop, Alex giddy with excitement. He'd bought two new notebooks for his personal writing, a folder for his homework, a planner and plenty of files for coursework, not to mention the beautiful fountain pen.

Their next stop was clothes, what Hamilton had been dreading the most. They each grabbed a basket and went through the mens' wear.

Alex had never been fussy about what he wore, most of his clothes were thrifted, not in the 'rich kid slumming it to be cool' way though. More in the 'this shirt is fifty cents, it's the only thing I can afford' sort of way.

It didn't seem John was really interested in clothes either, but Hercules and Lafayette were in their element, picking tee shirts and jeans left and right, considering every zip and shade.

After half an hour Lafayette had picked out more cloths for Alex than Alex had for himself.

"Now we must go and try them on, oui," he exclaimed happily.

 _Shit, they're gonna see my bruises. My bandages. But I can't say no, how could I , when Laf is buying all this for me._

They all walked together to some changing cubicles and Alex hesitantly stepped into one, quickly taking off his shirt and putting on a long sleeved flannel and a pair of ripped jeans Gil had insisted he try.

He walked out self consciously, where the other three were waiting. Lafayette had tried on a new vest and jeans, of course, he looked incredible. It was John however who Alex couldn't help stare at.

Instead of his plain tee shirt he had tried on a dark blue button down and a pair of black jeans. The tightness of the material only emphasised his toned arms and his shoulders looked slim and elegant.

 _Stop it! You're disgusting, you're an abomination. He hates you, he hates you, he hates you..._

They quickly worked their way through the clothes, John and Alex already tired of the ordeal but following along anyway.

Soon Alexander had tried on all the long sleeve sweaters and t-shirts and was only left with a few vests.

Gulping, he called out to Lafayette in French, thinking the safety of the language would guard him from prying ears.

"Lafayette, je ne peux pas essayer les vests, Ils verront les coupures et bleus."

 _Lafayette, I can't try on the vests, they'll see the cuts and bruises._

His voice voice shook ever so slightly but he hoped the other two wouldn't notice due into the unfamiliar language he was speaking.

There was an akward silence outside the changing room, then Lafayette responded.

"Uh, Alex, John peut comprendre le français."

 _Alex, John can understand french._

There was a deathly silence and Alex cursed under his breath. Not willing himself to come out of the changing room, instead he sunk onto the stool there and started hyperventilating.

 _You're actually just an idiot. An idiot freak who can't keep his mouth shut. As if John could ever like you after this. He probably already disliked you, now he definitely just hates you._

Alex bit into his knee to stop himself whimpering and drew in sharp, jagged breaths.

He heard Hercules' voice muffled through the door.

"What's going on you guys? I don't speak French."

"Just, go look at shoes or something for a second, you too John."

Alex heard annoyed muttering and suddenly the lock clicked open as though someone had twisted it from the outside.

Lafayette entered the changing room alone, a worried expression on his face. He locked the door again and Alex whimpered at the thought of being locked alone in a room with anybody, no matter how kind they had presented themselves to be.

"Shh, shhh, Alex, it's okay. John's a good person. He will say nothing."

Alex shook his head and his vision swam, colourful spots dancing in front of him. He must have looked dazed,

"Alex, do not pass out. Please, you are okay. Let us count your breathing."

Lafayette started, "one, two, three, four, five..."

After the second time he got to ten Alex joined in, breathing the numbers out slowly and raggedly.

A few minutes later he had calmed down sufficiently and Laf had run to a sales assistant to get him some water. Alex gulped down the cool, soothing liquid and stood up.

"I'm okay now. Sorry Laf, I feel like such an idiot for not considering that John spoke French.."

"Mon chère, non, you didn't know. When I first met him I had no idea, it was a little like when I first met you."

"You called him short?"

"Non, annoying."

Alex laughed albeit shakingly and drained his water. He could imagine a younger Lafayette staring in shock at a pissed off John.

He gathered up all the clothes that Alex wanted to buy, which was most - Lafayette did have a good eye for fashion.

They brought everything to the till where John and Hercules were waiting.

They both stood up immediately.

"Alex, are you okay? You sounded a bit, uh, anxious back there." Hercules' voice was laced with concern.

Alex looked at Lafayette and drew in a deep breath.

"It's no big deal, I get panic attacks sometimes but they're totally manageable and Laf here is good at helping me."

Hercules nodded in understanding and Alex decided he really liked him in that moment, his calm and non judgemental demeanour was relaxing.

John was eyeing Alex in concern. As they left the shop, he hung behind next to Alex as Laf and Hercules walked ahead.

"I'm sorry you had a panic attack back there, I promise I won't tell Herc or anything, and you don't have to worry about me judging you."

 _you would if you knew how I got all those cuts..._

"Thanks John. That means a lot."

They stared at each other for a long moment and they both blushed in similar shades of pink.

Alex swore he could see himself reflected in John's eyes.

Breaking the eye contact, they continued to walk altogether through the mall, not daring to presume the look had been anything more that just that, a look.

In their second last stop they went to the drug store, just for five minutes, to pick up some shampoo, tooth paste, soap and deodorant for Alex and Gilbert.

Before leaving the mall to part ways they stopped into a local coffeehouse and each got large, steaming lattes, with the exception of Alex who preferred the stronger Americano.

They sat crammed together in a tight booth, laughing and sipping coffee. Every time John reached in to pick up his mug, his fingers brushed Alex's and Alex felt like how he imagined Thoams Edison had when he invented the he lightbulb. The same electricity seemed to be coursing through his fingers and up his arm, warming his entire being.

Their knees were pressed together under the table and though it was due to the lack of space, Alex couldn't help but feel warm inside, and he didn't think this was due to the coffee...

When they had all said goodbye to each other Lafayette walked home chatting merrily to a socially exhausted Alex.

When Lafayette opened up and stepped inside, Martha insisted they show her all they had bought.

She nodded approvingly at the clothes they had bought and exclaimed in delight at Alex's new notebooks and pens.

"Oh Alex, these are lovely! I hope one day you'll show me some of your writing!"

Alex shrugged but then nodded. He was actually pretty proud of some of his more recent, political essays. He could show her those sometime.

He carried the piles of clothes and other items up to his bedroom, where for the first time he unpacked and placed everything he had either in his drawers or cupboard.

After dinner that night, which was a relatively uneventful affair, he sat with the Washingtons and they watched a documentary about the 2016 election.

Afterwards they had descended into a fiery discussion over Trump's vice president Mike pence and who they would like to run for the next election.

Lafayette in particular had gotten so worked up he had taken to yelling angrily in torrents of French, to no one in particular, well, maybe the president, and uttering such foul swear words that Alex felt sure that if the Washingtons had understood, it would not have been pretty.

Lying in bed exhausted that night, Alex didn't have time to worry about school or the Washingtons or George. All he could think of was how John curled his hair around his finger when he was thinking or the way he wrinkled his nose when he laughed.

Part of him was screaming that this was unnatural and disgusting, that he was a boy and so was John, but a larger part of him just wanted to know what John's hair felt like under his fingers.

He drifted off into his first easy sleep for while and astonihingy, didn't wake up once during the night.

 **that was a little shorter than usual, like 3,800 words roughly. Anyway, lams! But don't get to comfortable, Alex has not got it so easy yet!**


	8. Chapter 8

**Wow! I got a load a reviews in the past few hours, thanks so much guys! I love reading them, they make my day! This chapter got to 10,000 words so I'm splitting it.**

 **Reviewer responses:**

 **Guest: Oh, is it on fanfiction? I haven't seen it. Yeah, the danger of foster care AUs is that most of them follow similar themes. I'm kind of straying away from some of the more common things but it probably seems like its plagiarized lol ( it's not). Imma read that fanfiction now!**

 **Lams pickles: Oh! I'm glad you can see my updates, you commented a while ago saying you couldn't! Hey!**

 **CarolinePhillips707: you make a good point, I also think this fanfiction talks about some important themes that I wouldn't want to censor unnecessarily from the majority of readers. Thanks!**

 **Trigger warnings: self harm, homophobic slur, mention of past child abuse.**

The next few weeks leapt by at an alarming rate, the days skipping past each other like pebbles over the surface of a lake. Alex hadn't yet adapted to life at the Washington's however. He still flinched and curled into himself when George stood up or moved too fast and nightmares awoke him frequently. His stomach, not yet used to the food supplied to it, tended to empty itself at the half full point.

One positive of the last few weeks of the summer was his growing friendship with Lafayette, Hercules and John.

John; Alex lived to see him. They spent all available time together, the four of them lounging in the comfortable living room of the Washingtons or laying stretched out in the sunny park near their house.

One particular day which had left Alex reeling was at the aforementioned park. Alex had been sleeping like a cat unfurled in the sun when John had taken off his shirt to 'catch that bomb ass tan for September.'

He had looked so beautiful in the golden light, toned and lean against the dark blue picnic blanket. Alex had felt so warm, so inexplicably happy for the first time in years.

John had caught him staring and grinned, his eye lashes golden and shining. His face was now, after the intense late summer sun, dotted with so many freckles that he looked like a pointillism artwork. Alex now understood why people said pretty as a painting.

Anyway, it was August the 31st and school would resume on the first day of September, the following morning. Alex had been signed up for the high school the previous week as a sophomore. He had chosen his subjects and placed in the same classes as John, Lafayette and Hercules for quite a few things.

He had done a few entrance exams and had been placed in honours classes for English among other things, with some Sophomores like himself and some juniors in the year above.

It was dinner time and around six o'clock. Martha and George had made pasta but Alex couldn't choke down a mouthful, his stomach churning and his chest pained with anxiety.

His dose of prozac was now at thirty milligrams but Alex was scatter-brained and often forgot to take it and even when he did, he found it unhelpful and only made it harder for him to sleep.

He hadn't voiced these complaints to the Washingtons, who had been paying for the medication since the start, he didn't want them to feel as though he was ungrateful.

Alex scraped his food into the waste bin after dinner and felt his stomach twist guiltily. He washed his cutlery and plate and retired early, wanting to get as much sleep for the morning as possible.

"Alex, dear, you don't want to watch anything on the TV?" Martha was looking at him with all too familiar concern written on her face. Alex hated seeing that look on her face, it had become her staple expression however when Alex was concerned. It made him hurt to see the worry he caused in her, he didn't deserve it.

"I think I'll just go and get some sleep. I want to be well rested for tomorrow. Is that okay? I can stay if you'd like..."

Martha shook her head and smiled, though it was tinged with sadness. Why couldn't he just make her happy for once?

"No, honey, you get some rest okay."

Alex climbed wearily up the stairs to his room, which after four weeks looked no more lived in than the night he had arrived. He was still awaiting the inevitable meeting where the Washingtons explained they couldn't keep him. He was too needy, too impertinent, too moody.

Sinking onto his bed he curled up in a ball and let the anxiety flood through him. He was too exhausted to have a panic attack now, but also too exhausted to fight one off. He seemed to disconnect from himself as his ragged breathing quickened and he shook violently.

Gasping hoarsely he tried to breath properly but found his throat closing, simply deciding to lie on his bed and just take it, Alex slumped, limp, and allowed the waves of nausea to roll over him.

The ceiling was white. So, so white. It seemed all encompassing. Like he was drowning in the sterile, bleached and dead colour.

A few minutes later he had gotten through the worst of it and stood up unsteadily.

Knowing he would regret it come morning, Alex reached into the bottom of his drawer and pulled out the small metal tin he had hidden there. He sat curled up onto his bed and rolled up his sleeve.

When he had cleaned up his arm to the best of his ability, he wrapped it in an old tee shirt. He didn't make the same mistake he had the first time at the Washingtons, this shirt was back and you couldn't see the numerous blood stains crusted into it.

Alex flicked off the light and lay down, glad it was pitch black in his room now, that crushing white was drowned in the thick night time.

He bit down on his lip hard and heard laughter downstairs, coming from something he would never, ever be a part of.

Alex pushed his head under his pillow to drown out the family in the living room below and closed his eyes, willing himself into a fitful sleep.

 _Pace grinned down at Alex, his enormous height dwarfing the boy._

 _"So you're leaving huh? Someone at school see all the bruises?"_

 _Alex nodded numbly. This was not good._

 _"Funny. I knew they never cared enough to report it. I could probably break your arm, no one would say anything."_

 _Alex nodded, he had learnt to agree when Pace insulted him, and started to believe it too._

 _"Well, you're leaving soon, so really, there's no consequences to what I do now. You'll be in fucking Virginia in two days."_

 _Alex gulped, not nodding this time, just feeling the hairs on the back of his neck stand up._

 _Then he clamped his hand around Alex's throat and knelt down to the floor, pinning him there._

 _"You know Alex, I'm not even gonna miss you. But you know that. This family you're going to, they won't really want you either. Will they?"_

 _Alex couldn't respond with a hand wrapped around his throat but Pace snarled and used his free hand to slap Alex hard across the face._

 _"Will they, boy?"_

 _Alex frantically shook his head and choked out a garbled no._

 _Pace smiled that awful, false smile and lay the first punch to his gut, leaving him doubled over and gasping for breath that he couldn't get with his throat being compressed like that._

 _The punches rained down and he zoned out until a sharp crack brought him back. Pace had stood up now and was no longer crushing his throat. Alex gasped in frantic breaths and looked up at Pace with a kind of bitter resentment in his dark eyes._

 _"You can only hit me when I'm down, can't you?"_

 _Alex regretted it as soon as the words left his mouth and he clenched his teeth shut._

 _"What did you say to me boy?"_

 _"Nothing."_

 _"Well it sure sounded like something."_

 _Alex didn't respond and Pace landed a sharp kick in his ribs. He lay on the floor, letting the blows land, back pressed against the wall and cheek against cold tile._

Alex awoke on the floor of his bedroom and glanced at the clock. 6:45, good, not too early. The sun was already rising and the window behind his curtain was a bright white.

Alex lay limp on the floor for a few minutes, feeling the anxiety in his stomach build and build, growing nearer and nearer to the inevitable panic attack.

Deciding he should probably wake Lafayette, as the agreed upon wake up time was ten to eight. He stood up and stumbled through the hallway to Lafayette's door. He knocked - no response, so he went in anyway.

"Laf... Laf, school today."

The boy groaned and sat up, bleary eyes staring sleepily at Alexander.

Maybe he noticed the look in Alex's eyes, maybe he was used to detecting the faint trembling of his foster brother's shoulders, but he picked up on Alex's anxiety immediately.

"Alexandre, are you okay?"

Alex bit his lip and shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "I had a nightmare."

Lafayette reached out to hug Lafayette and pulled him onto the bed. They hugged there for a moment.

"Shall I count your breaths?"

Alex nodded and they counted together, his breath hitching occasionally but slowing after a few minutes.

Alex stayed with Laf for a while longer, engulfed in warmth. Eventually though, they heard Martha and George's alarm go off signalling eight o'clock.

"I should go get ready Gil."

Lafayette nodded and ran his hand though his afro that he hadn't yet tied up.

Alex pulled himself away from the hug and slipped out the door quietly, back to his room.

Lafayette had helped him to choose an outfit the day before and it lay out on the back of his chair. Long sleeves - all his bruises had faded but the scars, some self inflicted, some not, were still there. Fresh cuts also stung along his forearm and made his arm a less than pretty picture.

He pulled on the jeans, which were black and ripped at the knees, with acid washed hems.

His flannel was black and white and he buttoned it till only the top two were undone.

Alex pulled on some converses and brushed his hair into a passable messy bun. He had gotten his hair trimmed slightly a week ago and it now just tickled his shoukders, no longer uncomfortably long.

He splashed water onto his face and looked at his reflection in the mirror. Everyone who knew what the signs of a messed up kid were would be able to see them in his face and body language instantly, but to someone normal, he looked alright. The colours in his outfit matched and they were clean. That was all that really mattered to Alex.

He tidied his bedroom hurriedly and walked downstairs where he heard breakfast being started. On weekdays when there wasn't much time to make a full meal, Martha and George set out cereal and toast for him and Laf, which they had with coffee, or tea in Lafayette's case.

Alex poured himself a small helping of cereal and a cup of steaming black coffee before sitting himself next to Lafayette at the table.

They ate in mostly silence, apart from Lafayette saying a few reassuring things about the school to Alex.

"The teachers are nice, mostly. You won't be alone, you've got me, John and Herc to hang out with!"

Martha and George came down a minute later, having left to get dressed after setting out breakfast.

They were both in work attire, Martha in a neat suit and George in a white shirt, tie and pants, it was still pretty warm outside.

Martha smiled at the two boys and came over, kissing Laf on the forehead and wrapping Alex in a quick, loose embrace. He still got jumpy when people hugged him but Martha had learned not to hold him tight and not for too long. He relaxed into the hug.

"You both look very handsome. Are you looking forward to the first day back?"

Lafayette rolled his eyes, "Maman, do not make me feel guilty! I cannot lie to you!"

Alex smiled, "I think we'll be alright."

Martha nodded and walked over to where George was making them cups of tea.

Alex and Lafayette finished breakfast quickly and walked back upstairs to grab their bags. They had filled them with the text books and stationary they'd bought a few weeks back and were weighed down by the contents of them.

Lafayette was wearing a mustard knit sweater and dark blue jeans he had bought a few weeks ago and had again curled his eyelashes and tied up his hair as usual.

He looked really good. Way better than Alex, who's outfit was nice but monochrome. It was clear he hadn't got much sleep and his frame was still as skinny as when he had arrived.

He pulled at the bags under his eyes in the mirror in Lafayette's room.

"Alex, did you sleep at all last night?"

Alex shrugged, "I may have drifted off a little."

Lafayette sighed and put his arm around Alex's shoulder.

"Everything will be all right, oui."

"Oui." Responded Alex, smiling.

Together they walked down the stairs and said goodbye to George and Martha in the kitchen.

As soon as Alex was in sight range of the school, his stomach dropped. Hundreds of students from freshmen to seniors, were milling around the gates, laughing, chatting, fighting.

He stopped for a moment but Lafayette squeezed his shoulder tightly.

"It's okay."

They walked through the crowds, Lafayette stopping to greet friends and high five freshman and seniors alike that he knew.

He brought Alex to the front office where he was met with a bored looking receptionist.

"Alex, I have to go to the roll call, will you be good here?"

Alex gulped and nodded, trying not to let the fear show in his eyes. Laf smiled at him and turned around again, walking out of the double doors through the corridor presumably to his class room.

"I have your time table here, Alexander."

He jumped and turned around to the receptionist. She was holding out a sheet of paper to him which he took instantly and scanned over.

 _Monday Sept. 1st_

 _Period 1: French, 211, honours. 9:20 - 10:20_

 _Period 2: English literature, 214, honours 10:20- 11:20_

 _Break 11:20 - 11:40_

 _Period 3: Maths, 307 11:40 - 12:40_

 _Period 4: Science, 310 12:40 - 1:40_

 _Lunch (3rd) 1:40 - 2:35_

 _Period 5: American politics, 409, honours 2:35 - 3:35_

Alex sighed, he had third lunch, which kinda sucked, but he thought Laf, John and Herc had it too, so he wouldn't be eating alone.

"A senior is gonna come and show you to class in a minute, okay."

The receptionist was twirling her hair around her finger and doodling on a post-it-note.

"Kay..."

He waited on the chair in the office for a few minutes until suddenly the double doors opened and a tall, bored looking senior walked in.

His hair was shaved very close to his scalp, so he almost looked bald, but he was one of those people who suited it. His skin was dark like his eyes and he was probably just a little shorter than Hercules.

"Are you Alexander Hamilton?"

He had a northern accent, perhaps Bostonian or upsate New York.

Alex nodded and the boy sat down next to him, peering at his time table.

"I'm Aaron Burr, most just call me by my surname, you're one of those most."

"O-okay." Alex stuttered.

"You've got French first period. This number here is where the class is. The first integer means the floor, so two, and the second is the room, the eleventh."

Alex nodded quickly, this was simple, the same system his old school used.

"Follow me, I'll bring you to your first class, but I can't help you after that. I'm sure you'll be able to find your way around then."

"Okay."

"You're in honours classes huh?"

"I guess."

Burr didn't talk to him after that but instead kept up a quick pace through the school, Alex having to make fast strides to keep up.

They walked up one flight of stairs through the clean, empty hallways.

The school was decorated with dozens of notice boards advertising all sorts of clubs from the school paper to a cooking class.

The lockers were long and narrow, stacked up against the wall, some people had stuck stickers and photos to their lockers. The floor was linoleum and dark blue. As they walked Burr pointed out all the boy's bathrooms that Sophomores could use.

Soon they turned down a corridor and Alex knew instantly it was the French hallway.

Displays of French essays and maps lined the walls and the ceiling was hung with little French flags.

Burr stopped outside a classroom with 211 painted on the door.

He knocked three times and a male teacher's voice called, "oui?"

He opened the door and smiled characteristically at the teacher, who was standing at the board.

When he saw Aaron he smiled in return.

"Aaron, une nouvelle élève?"

 _A new student?_

"Oui, Monsieur. Il s'appelle Alexandre Hamilton."

Alex could feel the eyes of the entire class on him as he scanned the rows of desks. Thankfully, sitting right at the back, he saw Lafayette and John next to each other. A free seat was available in front of Lafayette, Alex hoped he would get it.

The door closed and Alexander realised Burr had left. Monsieur Grants was looking at him expectantly, as though waiting for him to speak.

"Pardon?"

He mumbled, realising the teacher had asked him something.

The class murmured in amusement and Alex felt his face grow hot. Monsieur Grants looked a little frustrated.

"I said, introduce yourself to the class. En français, if you can."

Alex gulped and turned to the students in front of him.

"J-Je m'appelle Alexandre, je suis caraïbes, j'ai immigré quand j'avais treize ans. J'ai q-quinze ans." He cringed at his stutter, cursing his stupid, trembling lips.

 _I'm Alexander, I'm from the Caribbean, I immigrated when I was thirteen, I'm fifteen._

Monsieur Grants raised an eyebrow at his flawless French.

"Très bien Alexandre, asseyez vous."

He hurried to the seat in front of Lafayette, doing his best to ignore the murmurs and giggles that followed him.

Lafayette shot him a sympathetic grin and John gave him his usual flirty wink. Alex blushed, but then again, John did that for everyone.

The class started but it was pretty hard to concentrate. There was a group of boys a row ahead of him who were laughing loudly and whispering to each other. One of them kept throwing airplanes at a boy in the front row.

He caught one of the boy's eyes when he turned around to look Alex. They were cold, a harsh blue like chips of ice.

The boy had floppy, raven black hair that was shaved on one side and long on the other. He had the kind of cheekboned face one could associate with arrogance. He was good looking and he knew it. His lips curled into a lethal smirk and he chewed on a pen absentmindedly.

They boy who had been laughing and whispering the loudest was tall looking, even when sitting down and had blonde, curly hair that was long at the top and shaved at the sides. He had an intelligent look about him, but not in the positive way you might think. No, this boy looked like he knew you better than you did yourself and would use that against you in an instant.

He felt a subtle tap on his shoulder and he looked around to see Lafayette pressing a note to his back.

He took it quickly and turned around. He opened the note and read Lafayette's swirling handwriting.

 _Charles Lee, grade A asshole. He's the one with blue eyes._

 _George Frederick is the loud one._

Alex grinned and slid the note into his pencil case. He turned his attention back to the board where the Monsieur Grants was explaining direct and indirect object pronouns. Alex had learnt this when he was six from his mother.

He zoned out from the class, wondering how long left he had of this, until he heard his name called from the front. Jumping slightly, the class laughed, an especially cruel grin was evident on Charles Lee's face.

"Alexandre, I'm very sorry for interrupting your day dream. Would you care to fill in the work on the board?"

He stood up shakily and walked slowly to the front of the class room. He could do this, this was simple.

He took the white board marker off the teacher and with a trembling hand, reading in the first question.

He sighed, he knew this.

 _Je mets la carte sur la table._

All had to do was add the object pronoun.

He wrote on the board, in his tiny, loopy writing, _Je l'y mets._

He finished the questions quickly and handed the pen back to an impressed looking Monsieur Grants.

Not wanting to draw any more attention to himself, he walked quickly back to his seat. On the way, while his was passing Charles Lee's desk, a foot was suddenly right in his path.

Before he had time to stop, he was stumbling through the air and crashing his head against the leg of his desk. A yelp of pain escaped his mouth and he heard John gasp.

Laughter rang through the class room as he stood up, blushing furiously. He glared at Lee, who smirked back, eyes flashing dangerously, and turned back around to face the front.

Lafayette was red in the face, furious, while John was making a throat slitting motion at Lee.

Monsieur Grants raised his eyebrows, "Alexandre, what was that?"

Charles glared at him for a moment, as if daring him to tell the truth. He stayed silent for a second.

"Rien, Monsieur, I tripped over my lace."

Alex sat back down and hunched over against his desk, ignoring the smug glances Lee and his friend George were shooting at Alex.

He turned around to look Lafayette, he was breathing heavily but shook his head at Alex, as if to warn him not to retaliate.

The rest of the class dragged by, most of it taken up by silence as the students worked on some pages in their textbook.

Soon, the bell rang, signalling the start of next period.

Alex gathered up his things quickly and shoved them into his bag. He walked over to Lafayette and John waiting for them to finish packing away.

They walked in angry silence from the class room and parted ways at the end of the corridor. John was going to Art, Alex to honours English and Lafayette to regular English.

He looked down at his time table, English was on the same floor, in class room fourteen.

Alex walked into the class and took a seat right at the back, unpacking his things carefully and waiting excitedly for the teacher to arrive. Just as he had opened his text book to scan through it for the fiftieth time, a loud cough sounded above him.

He looked up and flinched when he saw Charles Lee standing there, eyes sharp and malicious.

"You're sitting in my seat."

Alex didn't know what to say, he had gotten here first, it was the first day of the year. This was his seat.

"Uh... no, I'm sitting in my seat."

Charles' eyes darkened to Prussian blue cyanide and he repeated himself,

"You're sitting in my seat, idiot."

There was a hint of violence in his tone now. Alex began to shove things into his bag quickly, deciding it wasn't worth it to fight back.

"Let me help you with that," George, the boy behind Charles grinned. He lifted his arm, and before Alex could stop him, swiped all of Alex's equipment off the desk. Pens rolled and bounced across the floor and his textbooks landed with around thump at his feet. George pulled Alex by the back of the collar and sent him sprawling to the ground, after his things.

As he was on his knees, quickly gathering his stuff into his arms, a girl knelt down next to him and started to help, gathering his textbooks into a pile.

Alex looked up at her and smiled. She rolled her eyes up at the two boys staring down at them. She was extremely pretty, her hair was long and silky, black in colour and tied in a half up, half down style. She was wearing a ultra marine tank top and had dark brown, Monet freckles on her shoulders.

"Eliza Schuyler, pleased to meet you. Sorry about those," she raised her voice slightly, "Idiot assholes, they're just being dumb."

Alex grinned and Charles Lee turned around.

"Shut up, dyke."

There was a collective gasp around the room but Elisa seemed unperturbed.

"Lee, I think you're just mad I get more girls than you."

She smiled sweetly and rested Alex's things on a desk next to hers, where she sat back down.

Alex laughed loudly and nodded in thanks to the girl. He liked her already.

Charles and George were about to retaliate but stopped when a young woman swept into the room. She was obviously the teacher and was carrying a cup of coffee and a folder in her arms. She screamed confidence.

"Good morning class, I'm Miss Monroe, welcome back to school. I'm sure you're just as excited as I am to be back."

She grinned and the rest of the class laughed, Alex even managed a smile.

Charles and George had sat down but were still glaring at Alex and Eliza. He felt uneasiness stir in his stomach but pushed it down to concentrate on the teacher.

"I see we have a new student in class with us today," the teacher was talking again, "do you want to introduce yourself?"

Alex gulped and stood up, "uh... I-I'm A-Alex. I'm fifteen, I'm from the Caribbean."

He hastily sat down again and winced as he heard laughter coming from the side of the room Charles and George were sitting.

Miss Monroe smiled at Alex and turned back to the board. Picking up a white board pen she wrote,

'The kite runner, Khaled Hosseini'

"This is the book we'll be studying for the semester, okay. I have copies here, James, will you hand then out?"

A short, dark boy who bared a striking resemblance to Hercules, aside from the considerable height difference, went around passing beaten up copies of the book to the students as he went.

Alex hadn't read it, but had read another by the author, 'A thousand splendid suns.' It had been really good, so he was looking forward to going into this book in detail.

They started off by reading the first three pages together and picking out techniques the writer was using to inspire emotion in the reader. In the first ten minutes, Alex had already filled up an entire page of his English copy book but hadn't dared to put up his hand yet.

He glanced at Eliza's book and saw she had quite a lot written down too, she seemed very intelligent. He smiled shyly at her and she raised her eyebrows at his already full page.

They were given the task of writing a short, one thousand word essay on the opening pages of the novel due for a weeks time. Alex was already mentally forming the opening lines of his, considering the setting of Afghanistan and the era Hosseini had chosen.

He was jotting down some notes on the narrator's voice when the bell rang and he was forced to close his pen and pack everything away.

It was break time, so instead of having to head to his next class, Alex started walking to one of the bathrooms Burr had shown him. He was excited about the essay for his English class but his anxiety wasn't exactly at a low level and he wanted to go somewhere private to calm down.

He was in such a hurry to get there, he didn't notice the two juniors following him from his English class.

 **oooh! What will happen next?**


	9. Chapter 9

**Hey, thanks for reviewing and favourite-ing and what have you!**

 **Trigger warnings: mention of self harm, mention of past abuse, bullying, homophobic slur.**

 **This chapter got real deep.**

Alex headed down the empty corridor and pushed into the men's room. He turned on the tap and splashed some cold water in his face, breathing deeply. He was okay, he was okay.

He heard the door open and was about to look around when he felt someone pulling on the back of his shirt.

Next thing he knew, someone had grabbed him and was pushing him up against the cold tiled wall.

He kicked frantically, panic bursting like fireworks inside him.

Alex looked up to the face of whoever it was that was holding him and cursed under his breath.

Fucking Lee.

The boy was grinning slyly, like a cat who had just caught a mouse and knew it was seconds away from being devoured.

George stood behind him like a bodyguard, watching on.

"Well if it isn't 'A-A-Alexander...'" he grinned, imitating the boy's nervous stutter.

"Lee, can you just piss off? I'm trying to use the bathroom here."

This evidently wasn't the smartest thing to say because as soon as the words left his mouth, Lee pushed his hands towards Alex's neck and squeezed hard, cutting off the diatribe he'd been about to throw at him.

Lee's grip tightened until Alex saw white spots dancing in his vision, Lee was smirking, he said something Alex couldn't make out.

He couldn't breathe. It was Pace all over again, but this time he was going to die, he was getting light headed, his eyes involuntarily fluttered shut.

"Lee, stop it, you can't hurt him too bad."

George was speaking now and Charles' grip loosened. He nodded at his friend.

"Yeah, you're right."

Alex frantically gulped in air, his breath came out wheezing and shallow.

Lee turned back to Alex and grinned again, "you think you're all that? Laughing with the Schuyler dyke in English, showing off in french. Tu te faites vouloir vomir."

Alex smirked, "actually, it's 'tu me faites' otherwise you're saying you make yourself sick. Genius."

Alex winced and prepared himself for the inevitable blow, he wasn't disappointed.

Charles growled and kneed Alex harshly in the gut, making him double over in pain. He let go of Alex's collar to punch him square in the face, knocking him to the ground.

"Not so smart now, Alexander, lying at my feet."

Alex choked out a response, filled with rage. "Still speak better french than you..."

Charles laughed and kicked Alex in the ribs, over and over again, he was now struggling to breathe. He thought he might have heard something crack.

He was frantically trying to gasp in breaths and get air back into his lungs, but his ribs stung painfully whenever he inhaled.

George knelt down next to him and patted his arm in a mock friendly manner. Blood was pouring from Alex's split lip, or was it his nose? He didn't know.

Suddenly, George grabbed a fist full of Alex's hair, which was coming undone from its bun, and pulled his head up off the floor. Alex gasped in pain and stared at George straight in the eye.

"Remember, if you tell anyone, we won't come for you, we'll go for that gay kid you hang with, the french one."

With a chuckle George dropped Alex's hair and gave him a farewell kick before the two boys left the bathroom together, leaving Alex on the floor, in too much pain to move, silently having a panic attack.

The linoleum floor was cold against his face. He tried to push himself to his feet by grabbing the faucet of the nearest tap, but it twisted on and his grip slipped, making him crash to the floor again with a yell.

He closed his eyes and tried to still his trembling shoulders, he could feel the panic attack coming on in full force now.

The blood from his nose or lip, maybe both, was metallic and coppery in his mouth. He could feel bruises forming around his neck and ribs.

Vaguely in the corridor he heard voices, male ones. Hang on, he recognised that one.

It was Hercules. He was about to yell out to his friend but stopped himself. Hercules would call Lafayette, or John. They would in turn call George or Martha, who would just worry. He'd caused them enough pain already, how could he be selfish enough to drag them out of work just because he couldn't keep his fucking mouth shut, or take a punch?

He heard the voices die away, fading into non existence. Hercules was gone.

Alex was still lying on the floor, the hard tile increasingly painful against his injured rib. First he sat up against the wall and whimpered in pain when he felt his rib twist. He wondered if it was broken, how could he keep it from the Washingtons if it was?

Wincing again, he used the edge of a sink to pull himself to his feet, resting against the cold ceramic. He stayed like that for a while, seemingly hovering on the line between consciousness and cool, blissful oblivion.

Alex finally had the courage to open his eyes and look in the mirror. He cursed. There was no way he could hide this. His eye was swollen badly; already purple and bruised. His lip and nose were bleeding dark, sanguine blood and there was a cut on his cheekbone that looked nasty. He wondered vaguely if Lee had been wearing a ring.

That wasn't to mention the possibility of a broken rib and the finger print necklace of bruises around his neck.

Alex stumbled to the bathroom stall and grabbed some tissues, the effort he had used causing him to rest there for a few minutes before hobbling back to the sink. He wet the tissue and held it up to his bleeding face, crying out slightly too loudly when it stung.

After a few minutes of stemming the blood flow, his face looked slightly better. Of course, there was still the matter of his bruised up eye that he couldn't ignore.

He had nothing to do about his eye however, he had no make up handy. He'd used his fair share of concealer and foundation back at Paces' but it now sat tucked away in a drawer back at the house. Unreachable.

Swallowing nervously, he hesitantly reached his hands up to his hair, with the aim of retying it. When his arms exceeded a 180 degree angle however, he paused. His rib was throbbing now, as if warning him not to stretch his arms any higher. He ignored it, biting back a yell and using his trembling fingers to pull his hair into a slightly more passable messy bun.

His ribs exploded into agony and he yelled again in pain, his vision clouded again by that horrible, crushing white. He stayed stock still for a moment, not seeing anything but white, then it subsided slightly and he drew in a breath.

Dropping his arms limply back to his sides he breathed deeply again. Deciding he would rather have a panic attack here than in the middle of class, he shuffled into a cubicle and locked the door, succumbing to the waves of nausea and anxiety that had been threatening to flood him.

He focused his eyes on a star someone had doodled on the wall and felt his breathing quicken. Each inhale felt like someone was digging a knife into his side, carving words into his ribcage.

 _Not so smart now, lying at my feet._

He trembled at the recollection and closed his eyes, willing the fear away until the anxiety in his chest resembled a harsh wind rather than hurricane.

He glanced at his watch. Two minutes until the bell. He could use those two minutes to pull on his hoodie, do something to hide the trembling, to hide the bruises on his neck.

He began the slow, pain full process of unzipping his bag and pulling out the hoodie. It was nestled deep at the bottom but he took it out and used the remainder of his energy to slide it on.

Now he just had to walk to class on the other side of the school, up another flight of stairs.

The bell rang and he jumped, crying out at the pain in his ribs. This was perfect, he had a bruised, swollen face, a bleeding nose and lip and a broken or at least cracked rib. This was everything he had hoped for in his first day at school.

He stumbled out of the bathroom and used all his energy to limp to class. The corridors were swelling now and people gave him funny looks and he shuffled through the school. Fortunately, They were too preoccupied to stop him. Either that it they didn't care enough. Alex assumed it was the latter.

He made his way to the maths block and deliberately stalled slightly so that he could get into class quickly and leave no time for anyone to ask questions.

When he finally stumbled to his assigned room almost everyone was in their seats. He spotted an empty desk far away from Lafayette and John in the third row.

He winced as he pushed open the door and kept his face lowered when he walked in. He collapsed into his seat and refused to let his eyes dart to where Lafayette and John were sitting.

He felt his mind going fuzzy, his thoughts drifting around aimlessly. He closed his eyes and felt the darkness welcome him.

Then he heard the door being pushed open again and his heart stopped when a familiar, sneering voice met his ears.

Lee and George were in this class?

He didn't dare turn his head when he heard their footsteps walk nearer and nearer to his desk. The class grew quiet and he heard angry murmuring from where Lafayette and John were sitting.

He still kept his head down, eyesight fixed on his fingernails. The anticipation was killing him.

He allowed his eyes to dart up for a second and as expected they met the icy, tempestuous stare he knew to belong to Charles Lee.

The eyes smirked and a laugh ripped from Lee's throat. In his peripheral vision he thought he saw Lafayette standing up.

A cold, long fingered hand darted towards his face and grabbed his chin, forcing his head up to stare Lee right in the face. He heard Lafayette growl.

Alex bit back a yelp when Lee's strong grip squeezed down on the cut across his cheekbone.

"Oh dear, looks like Alexander got his face all rearranged."

George was speaking now. Testing him, seeing if Alex would dare to say what they'd done in front of the entire class.

He wrenched his face out of Lee's grasp and stood up furiously, feeling the eyes of at least thirty teenagers following him intently.

"Leave. Me. The. Fuck. Alone."

The words came out as a hiss, growled through gritted teeth, eyes narrowed and glinting dangerously.

Shock registered on Lee's face for just a moment before he threw his head back and laughed.

Alex was suddenly aware of his tall Lee was in comparison to him. He towered five or six inches above Alex, who was admittedly short.

Why was everyone so goddamn tall?

Lee's hand had reached forward again at lighting speed and was at his ribs before he could stop it. His grip found the injury quickly and he pressed down hard, squeezing tightly like a boa constrictor. He could feel his rib moving underneath the skin and the grip pressed harder as he struggled to break away.

Alex yelled in agony and doubled over in pain, all but collapsing onto his chair.

"Someone get you there too?" Lee's smirk was taunting now, daring him to respond as he had before.

Alex had another diatribe on his lips when suddenly Lafayette was next to him, pulling him away from the cold blue stare.

Lafayette looked as though there was nothing more he desired at that moment than punching Lee square in the face, so he did. His fist flew through the air and connected with Lee's face in a satisfying crunch.

"Va te faire foutre!" Lafayette hissed, his anger causing him to lapse into his inventory of French insults.

Lee staggered back, gripping his nose in agony, swearing violently.

"It punched me! The fag punched me!"

Alex snarled and was about to pull away from Lafayette's restraint when he felt another grip on his arm. Presumably John's.

They dragged Alex from the room, ignoring their maths teacher who passed them in the corridor.

Alex's nose had started bleeding again. The rhythmic pulse of blood against his lip felt like the ticking of a clock. He was running out of time. Until what, he didn't yet know.

Lafayette and John pulled Alex into a bathroom and sat him down on the sink.

"Alex, what the fuck happened?" John was speaking, he blushed a burnt sienna when he was angry. It suited him.

Alex couldn't quite speak yet, his breath was rattling in his throat, it sounded broken. Like wind whistling though abandoned buildings.

John and Lafayette looked at each other, their eyes wide with concern.

He calmed down a little and spoke.

"I think my rib is broken."

Lafayette winced, "Alex, qu'est qui ce passe?"

"Nothing is going on, I just want to be left alone."

John ran his hands through his hair angrily.

"Alex, it's obvious someone laid into you, who was it?"

Alex considered lying, telling them he didn't know. That it all happened so fast, he didn't see their faces. He remembered what George had told him, the threat of him and Lee finding Lafayette, hurting him.

Alex shrugged.

John sighed, "what do you mean, you don't know?"

"They wanted money, my phone. I don't know, I didn't get to see their faces very well."

Lafayette shook his head, "but you don't have money or a phone." He winced, that came out a little insensitive.

Alex didn't seem to care, "I said that. I guess they though I was lying. I mean, these jeans look expensive. So do the shoes. They probably assumed I'd have cash on me."

It was a weak excuse and he knew it. Who would mug a random teen at school, in the middle of the day?

Lafayette didn't seem to be buying it.

"Mais, how did you not see their face?"

"I did a bit. They grabbed me from behind. Didn't see much."

Alex tried to appear angrily nonchalant. He was good at lying. It was a talent he'd perfected with Pace. He made his voice sound bitter and pained, dabbing at his lip with his sleeve as if recalling the injury being inflicted.

"Why was Lee acting so weird then? He came into the class room towards you like he knew something had happened."

You could practically see the cogs in John's head turning. He stared at Alex perplexed.

"It was Lee and George, wasn't it?"

Lafayette looked at Alex intently. He pretended to be distracted with the bruising around his eye. Again, he shrugged. He knew if he told Lafayette and John they would be outraged. They would drag him to Principal Adams, call George, get Lee in trouble. Get Lafayette hurt.

He couldn't do that to these people. He couldn't give a shit about Lee and George, but he imagined the expression on Martha's face in Principal Adams' office. He thought of George, how angry he would be that Alex was in a fight. No. It was much easier to say he was mugged.

"I don't think so. Who ever it was, they wanted cash. It's no secret Lee is filthy rich any way."

John and Lafayette seemed to be at a loss, but gave up.

"We need to get you home. If your rib is broken, we can't keep you in school."

"No." Alex shook his head and whimpered slightly at the pain in his throat. "I'm fine, really. It's only third period, I can stay."

At this, John and Lafayette looked furious.

"Bullshit Alex, you can't move your head without wincing. We're taking you home."

He tried to stand up, he felt pathetic leaning against a sink like this, craning his neck up to talk to them.

He got to his feet but no sooner had he taken his weight of the sink, he was crashing to the floor. His vision had flashed a bright white again and his head throbbed.

John caught him just before he hit the floor and hoisted him back up again, this time holding his shoulders steady.

"This is not up for debate. You are going home."

Alex sighed. He didn't bother nodding, he knew he had no choice on the matter.

Lafayette pulled his phone from his pocket.

"I will call George, D'accord?"

Alex sighed wearily and yelped at the sudden pain in his chest.

"D-d'accord."

John laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder and gently rubbed him there. Alex melted into his touch, then realising what he was doing, stiffened.

Lafayette swiped into his contacts and tapped on 'papa'.

The phone rang for a few seconds before George's familiar gruff voice sounded.

"Gil, why are you calling? Shouldn't you be in class?"

Lafayette gulped. "It's uh, Alex. I won't talk about it now. We need you to drive us home."

"Gil, what's going on? Is Alex okay?"

Lafayette didn't respond and George repeated himself, "Gil, is Alex okay?"

"Just, just pick us up."

He hung up the phone and sighed.

Alex winced.

 _You're just a waste of space. Seriously, it's like three hours into the school day and you're getting picked up. Can you do anything right?_

The front office was empty and silent, the same idle receptionist was chewing gum in slow, rhythmic movements.

Her expression swelled from surprise to horror when her eyes rested on Alex. Lafayette rushed over to the desk, ready to explain the situation.

John moved Alex over towards the sofa, before they had even reached the destination, Alex was limp in John's arms. A marionette puppet with the strings cut.

John pulled Alex towards the sofa where he lay him down gently. He swallowed, not sure if the boy had fainted or fallen asleep from sheer exhaustion. Deciding that one was not much better than the other, he sat down.

Lafayette was still conversing with the receptionist. John walked over.

"Mon père will arrive soon, we have to go home."

"Mon what?" She looked confused. Lafayette sighed.

"My father! He will be here soon, I have called him."

The receptionist sighed and nodded, her eyes already bored again.

Just then the door swept open and a gust of wind stung John's face. George stood at the door, looking as though he had left work in a rush. His coat was flung on askew and his face was frantic.

Lafayette walked quickly forward and wrapped his father in a tight hug. George reciprocated but released Lafayette quickly, scanning the room for Alex.

His gaze stopped at the sofa where he took in his foster son's ragged appearance. He started forwards and crouched down in front of him. His temperament calmed and he cautiously shook Alex awake, applying the same hesitancy another man would use when handling small animal or broken glass.

But Alexander was neither small and delicate nor broken. Just asleep. Just Alex.

He stirred and jerked awake, sitting bolt up right when his gaze fell on George.

"Alex, let's go. The car is outside."

He nodded and Lafayette and George helped him to his feet.

He moved gingerly with a fawn like stumble. The lack of self assurance was not unfamiliar and given the situation, George fancied, not improbable. While Alex said fairly little about his past, his body language often betrayed a kind of simultaneous - or, rather, cyclical - self-awareness of imminent self-destruction. As though, for example, every yawn or stretch was calculated to draw as little attention to his caution as possible.

George shook himself out of these useless musings and focused on getting Alex to the car.

When they reached the car Alex was helped into the back seat next to John, the former of the two lain down, his head resting on the latter's lap.

Lafayette clambered into the passenger seat next to George and they slowly reversed from the hasty parking space in silence.

When they had reached the gates, George spoke.

"Seeing as three of you seem less than willing to explain what is happening, I'm going to take it upon myself to ask."

Lafayette coughed awkwardly and looked at John, who looked at Alex, who was asleep, (or unconscious, but we shall ignore these pessimistic parenthesis, reader.)

"Alex got into some sort of... trouble today." The euphemism felt foolishly unsuitable for the situation.

George snorted, though there was no humour in his expression.

"I can see that. What I am asking however, is who did this."

John spoke now. "Alex doesn't seem to want to say."

George frowned, "what do you mean?"

"He says he didn't see who did it, that they wanted money or his phone. But we don't really believe him."

Lafayette nodded, glancing back to make sure Alex was still asleep.

"There are two boys, Charles Lee and George Frederick."

George nodded angrily, "I know their fathers. Lee may run against me if he's nominated for Senate next year."

John continued. "They don't seem to like Alex at all. When he came into maths all... beaten up they acted super weird. Lee grabbed his face and forced him to look at him. They were asking him what happened, like they were challenging him. Calling his bluff, I don't know. Then Lee dug his hand into Alex's rib, like he somehow knew it was injured."

"What happened to his rib?"

John gulped. "It might be uh, fractured. Broken - perhaps."

George cursed under his breath, so quietly Lafayette and John weren't sure they'd heard correctly. George never swore.

They pulled into the driveway of the house and John shook Alex gentky awake. He sat up blearily.

Again, Lafayette and George helped Alex into the house. He insisted he was alright, feeling weak and pathetic relying on the strength of his foster father and brother.

Alex was guided to the sofa in the sitting room and ordered to lie down, despite his protests that he would rather sit.

Bandages, ice packs, painkillers and ointment was produced, as well as other medical paraphernalia. George skilfully attended to the cuts and bruises on Alex's face.

There was still the matter of the rib however, broken or not, it was causing Alex a good deal of pain and his breaths were shallow.

George gently pressed along Alex's rib, searching for anything to indicate a break. It became evident the bone was indeed broken soon, George could feel the edge of the broken bone beneath the shirt and skin.

Lafayette had brought up a page on Google about broken ribs, which could be treated at home. After some consideration, although silence on Alex's end, it was decided that the hospital would not be necessary.

Alex had, for the most part, remained silent and complicit through the entire affair. However, when it was suggested he take off his shirt to get to the bruising that would undoubtedly have bloomed across his ribs, he tensed.

Lafayette knew about the scars on his forearms. George did not. George knew about the cigarette burns and belt marks on Alex's back, John did not. It was a messy situation in which the tension was palpable.

Alex quickly undid the buttons of his flannel, revealing the injury but discreetly keeping his arms in his sleeves, the cuts covered up by the thin fabric.

George used a cotton bud to rub on the ointment. Alex's ribs were not a pretty sight. The bruises resembled a storm cloud in both shape and colour - isn't it funny how humans and their natural surroundings tend to look like each other?

Alex's ribs were also clearly visible, flesh stretched tight across the bone. It was worrying considering he had stayed at the Washingtons for over three weeks now. He hadn't gained much weight.

The ointment was applied, the injury assessed, the shirt re-buttoned, the ice pack applied. Simple, easy - just add water.

Except it wasn't simple or easy. Alex still felt the words carved into his ribs.

 _not so smart now, lying at my feet_

He sat up right on the couch, drifting into unstable sleep. According to Lafayette, sleeping in an upright position helped the bone heal. Alex couldn't care less. His ribs were usually like a cage, encasing his heart. The cage had broken now, ironic that the break had been born of violence.

Actually, Fuck that useless rhetoric. Two idiots had broken his rib for literally no reason. There was nothing poetic or remotely romantic about it. His thoughts were bitter as he slept. He would not admit it had been Lee or George, but he wouldn't stop hating them internally.

When he awoke a few hours later the TV was on, some documentary about marine animals.

He looked up to the clock on the wall and sighed. 4:30

He'd slept for a good four and a half hours, and he was still tired.

John had noticed he was awake and smiled at him, it wasn't patronising or pitying, just warm, happy, John.

Lafayette was sprawled across the rug, his head facing away from them. Slowly, as though trying to make the moment last, John reached his hand towards Alex's and slowly took it in his, their fingers interlocking.

Alex smiled at the two hands and gripped tighter. They felt like they were made to fit together, like two halves of a broken rib becoming whole.

They stayed like that for a while, the clock ticked in the background, the sky outside changing. Not getting darker, but the light taking on a new, wearier afternoon shade.

Soon it was five thirty and almost exactly the same the clock struck this time, the door was opened and Martha stepped in.

She hung up her coat on a hook and greeted the house.

"I'm home!"

Alex scrambled into a more upright position and let go of John's hand instantly.

Martha stepped into the living room, her eyes fell on the gathering and she smiled. The smile dimmed however, when her eyes flicked back to Alex.

She took him the cuts and bruises on his face, the ice back held to his ribs, his sheepishly anxious expression.

"Alex? What on earth?"

George walked into the living room. He made eye contact with his wife and nodded his head to the room behind him.

"Martha, we could discuss this in the kitchen?"

She nodded. Alex and Lafayette stood up, John following a moment later. They hastened to the kitchen and sat down at the table, Martha busied herself at the kettle, her hands shaking slightly.

Tea was poured, which Alex politely declined and Martha sat down.

"Does anyone care to explain this to me?"

Alex winced. She was angry. This was not good.

Lafayette started speaking first.

"There is not a clear explanation maman. We, ah, disagree."

Martha looked puzzled. "You disagree on his this happened? What even happened, why does Alex have an ice pack?"

"Broken rib." Alex murmured, now wishing he had a cup of tea to focus on, something to stare into that wasn't one of the many concerned sets of eyes at the table.

Martha looked shocked and concerned all at once. She was about to speak but Alex cut her short.

"Just some idiots who wanted my money or phone, whatever. I'm okay."

Lafayette and John shared a look. They didn't know why Alex was maintaining this story.

Martha's eyes widened, "Alex, what did you give them?"

He shook his head, "I didn't have anything to give them. I guess they got angry, hence..." He trailed off, tapping his face vaguely.

Lafayette jumped in now, annoyed.

"Except, John and I disagree."

Martha looked confused.

"What is there to disagree on?"

John decided to intervene now.

"It's just, we think it was two boys in our class. You know them I think, Charles Lee and George Frederick."

Martha's jaw clenched. John continued.

"They acted really odd in maths, when Alex came in all bruised and stuff. Lee grabbed Alex's face and forced Alex to look at him, it was weird. They asked who laid into him, as though they were trying to scare him, or call his bluff. I don't know. Then Lee kinda dug his hand, sorta, into Alex's rib. Like he knew it would hurt."

Martha and George's hands had found eachother's now and were gripping tight.

"That's when Lafayette intervened."

George looked at his son suspiciously. Lafayette seemed suddenly, inexplicably interested in his fingernail.

"Gil, when John says intervened, what does he mean?" Martha looked a bit exasperated.

Lafayette looked up and his eyes were proud, unafraid.

"I told him to va te faire foutre and punched him in the face. He called me a fag."

Alex laughed, a short burst of rare mirth.

George looked half proud, half absolutely furious. Although, the three teenagers knew it was not at Lafayette. Martha looked humoured.

"He called you a what?" A muscle in George's jaw twitched.

John spoke up now, the fury he had been trying to bottle all day bubbling to the surface.

"To quote him exactly, 'it punched me! The fag punched me!'"

Alex had never before seen George or Martha angry, but when they were it was an awe inspiring sight. Martha looked quietly furious, her calm personality momentarily void. George on the other hand was clenching his fist so tight his dark knuckles had gone a stark white.

George took a deep breath and unclenched his fist. Alex wondered vaguely if he knew Lafayette wasn't straight or had assumed the insult was meaningless. Probably the former, all things considered, he was a liberal man.

Alex didn't like the way the conversation was straying. He didn't want George and Lee to be implicated. He stood up.

"I'm going to change, it's kinda late."

The eyes of everyone at the table met him and he internally shuddered. He hated it when everyone looked at him.

Lafayette's eyes widened as though an idea had struck him.

"Mamam, can John stay the night? It's late."

John smiled and sipped his tea awkwardly.

Martha considered this for a moment and looked at George, who shrugged in indifference.

"Yes, of course. As long as you don't stay up too late. You still have school tomorrow."

Lafayette smiled and Alex grinned too. A distraction, something to talk about other than the events of today, and more importantly, John. Staying over, all night.

Alex felt his heart skip a beat.

The conversation about Lee and George stopped, everything almost seemed normal. Alex, John and Lafayette changed into pyjamas, John, who slept over so often at the Washingtons, had a stash of clothes of his own he kept in Lafayette's room.

They decided to sleep in the living room, Alex could sleep upright as to not damage his rib and there was plenty of room for John and Laf to crash comfortably.

George and Martha had gone upstairs to bed and it was approaching eleven. They watched a few documentaries on Netflix and talked contentedly about TV shows for a while, and really anything that sprung to mind.

It was nearly one in the morning now and Lafayette had long since crawled onto the sofa under a blanket and drifted off. He didn't snore but his breathing was soft and regular, endearing like his personality.

John and Alex huddled closer together subconsciously, their hands were grasped together again. Alex could not remember when they had taken eachother's hands, but it hardly seemed to matter now. John brushed the tip of a scar that curled from Alex's back onto his shoulder. The boy flinched slightly but didn't move away, instead looking further into John's eyes.

"Alex... what happened before the Washingtons?" John's voice was barely a whisper. The light in the room was almost non existent, a faint white glow from the street lamp outside illuminated the two boys, John's freckles were even more pronounced now and Alex's hair was falling in messy curls around his face.

Alex gulped. He had never talked to anyone about it before.

"I lived in a group home when I came to America. Me and two dozen other boys. I was thirteen."

"What was it like?"

Alex thought for a moment. Those years were blurry but he could remember a distinguishing factor.

"Hungry." He admitted honestly. He was bolder now, leaning in and resting his head against John's chest. He heard John inhale sharply.

"And after that?"

"There were loads of homes. I got that... that scar in the Johnson's, when I was, I think fourteen."

He breathed this into John's chest and felt the flutter of his heart beneath his cheek.

"They... they hit you then?"

"Yeah. Mr Johnson, with his belt."

He felt John wince but the boy didn't move away, instead he reached a hand out to play with the curly end of Alex's hair.

"Who did you live with last?"

"A guy called Mr Pace. Not very pleasant. In New York."

"Did he hit you too?"

"Yeah. He was the worst. That's why today was so horrible. I broke ribs a lot back then. I guess it brought back memories."

John didn't pull away in horror like Alex had expected him to. He didn't cry out or push Alex away, no. They looked up to face each other and John spoke.

"That's behind you now. Laf and George and Martha and I, we all care about you."

They were nearly nose to nose now. Alex could see the reflection of his silhouette in John's eyes. The room was submerged in a dark blue shade like spilled ink, the light shining off John's curls was like topaz paint strokes and everything was veiled in the thick, mist filled summer night time.

They inched slightly closer. Alex could feel John's breathing on his face, his eyes were wide and his lips were open slightly in shock, or maybe surprise. Similar emotions really.

Their lips met as John leaned in to close the gap. Alex gasped in surprise but relaxed instantly, interlocking his bottom lip between John's. They kissed for maybe a minute. It was sweet, and breathy and youthful. Alex gasped a little when John reached his hand up to his hair, resting it there.

Alex's breath was like peppermint - toothpaste. John brought one hand gingerly down to Alex's waist and pulled him in closer. He looked down into Alex's eyes and smiled. They broke apart for a moment to laugh quietly before moving back together.

They giggled into eachother's mouths and broke apart finally. Alex rested his head again against John's chest and found his hand again in the dark.

"I'm sorry you've gone through that stuff. That you're still going through stuff."

Alex sighed, "it's okay, really, besides, I have you..."

He kissed John gently on the tip of the nose and settled back down. They were silent now, Lafayette's gentle breathing and John's heart beat against his cheek gently lulled him to sleep. They were still holding hands.

 **ayyooo! I'm pretty proud of this chapter but it was a bit weirdly written. If you've read the book thief by Marcus Zusak, you'll see how I've drawn inspiration from his style. Anyways, this chapter was a bit irregular. Tell me what you think of my writing in a review, my favourite reviews are the ones that critique me, give me something to improve on! Anyway, hope you enjoyed!**

 **By the way, va te faire foutre, the insult Laf used, means go fuck yourself.**


	10. Chapter 10

**Wow! Thanks for the overwhelmingly positive feedback! You guys are great! Bare with me if there are typos in this one... it's six in the morning and I haven't slept yet.**

 **Anyway, an amazing author on this site, 'thatwritermadeofpotatoes' has become my beta reader, I would recommend you read all of her hamilton fics! T** **he lams is UNREAL! Sorry by the way Kinzy, I send you so much work to edit, It's a wonder you get back to me so quickly with it done so well! Xx**

 **Trigger warnings: talk about last abuse, minor talk about bullying, panic attack, talk about suicide attempt.**

 **This chapter recounts a character's memory of their attempted suicide, it's quite dark but not graphic. Suicide hotline numbers are in my profile. Stay safe, Love you guys!**

Martha watched the three boys in the living room from the door way, everything seemed tranquil and normal as though the bruises on Alex's face were now invisible, or they could just ignore how he flinched when anyone moved too near him. But she couldn't; she couldn't get Alex out of her mind.

Martha left the doorway and walked back upstairs. George was lying in bed with a book, already in pyjamas.

"They're watching TV now. Like nothing happened."

George set down the book and sat up a little. He rubbed his head thoughtfully. Martha spoke again.

"Do you believe Alex?"

George didn't have to consider this, he shook his head immediately.

"No, I don't. But I can't see why he would lie."

Martha pulled on a pyjama shirt and rummaged through her drawer for a hair wrap.

"Charles Lee and George Frederick must have, I don't know, threatened him?"

George nodded, "What do you suppose we do? We know for sure that he insulted Gil, hurt Alex's rib in class. Do we go to the school?"

Martha sighed.

"I think going to the school would defeat the purpose of Alex lying. He's obviously not saying what happened because the boys told him not to tell, threatened him with something. If we go to the school then the boys will get in trouble anyway, so Alex telling the truth would make little difference in the end."

George nodded slowly, "But, we should take this supposed threat against Alex seriously. What if the boys assume they're in trouble because Alex told?"

Martha sat down onto the bed, "But they already beat Alex up without reason, it doesn't seem like they need a motive to hurt him."

George and Martha slid under the bed covers and the former flicked off the light.

In the dark, George heard Martha's voice break slightly.

"George, what do we do?"

He moved towards her and wrapped his arms around her body, pulling her close.

"I think we should talk again to Gil and Alex about it. There's no point stressing now, Martha, it's late."

He kissed her cheek and they settled into silence, neither of them asleep but neither willing to talk more about the matter.

George spoke again, his voice sleepy but caring.

"I love you, Martha."

She smiled in the dark, George could feel it. In his mind he could see the way her eyes crinkled and how her lips curled upwards like flower petals.

"I love you, too."

Alex awoke the next morning in pain, but simultaneously too comfortable to move.

His rib was throbbing painfully and the bruising was sore and tender. He could feel his lip more swollen and stinging than ever.

Yet, John's hand fit so perfectly in his own, his breathing was a soft breeze in Alex's ear and it made the pain of his current position worth it. He could shift, sit up straighter, it would hurt less. But his head was resting against John's chest and he could feel curly stands of his hair tickling the back of his neck.

No, this was better.

Alex stayed like this for a little while, not daring to turn his head lest he disturb John.

Eventually, the sunlight had crept into the room like the tide and was lapping its golden head against the end of the sofa. They had school today, they had to get up.

Alex smiled slightly as John's eyes twitched slightly and he lifted his hand up to rub his face and yawn. He looked almost cat like, dark, gold-flecked eyes and tousled curls.

"John?"

The boy groaned softly and stirred again, his eyelids fluttering with tiny movements like butterfly wings.

"Mornin'..." he sighed, his southern accent more pronounced. Whether this was for show or due to the early hour, Alex didn't know.

He smiled slightly and twisted one of John's curls around his finger.

"Morning John."

Beside them, Lafayette was moving too, groaning as his face met the harsh morning sun.

He opened his eyes , Alex let go of John's hair quickly.

"Bonjour mes amis..." he rolled onto his stomach and off the sofa completely, collapsing onto the rug, lying there for a moment, exhausted.

"Laf," John was grinning now, "you can't roll off the sofa and on to the floor just to fall asleep."

Alex smiled a little. "We have school soon, Its nearly eight."

Lafayette stood up and turned to Alex. "Are you going in today?"

John turned to face Alex now, looking curiously at him. Alex fiddled with the blankets, not liking the sudden attention.

"I- I thought I was going in... I am, aren't I?"

Lafayette shook his head, "I'm not sure if that's a good idea, Alex, your rib seems pretty painful and Lee and George are gonna act like assholes"

John nodded. "Martha and George will want you to stay home."

Alex didn't know what was worse. The idea that he would miss school for something so insignificant as a broken rib; or the fact that Martha or George might have to take more time off work to stay at home with him.

Alex internally groaned, letting out a deep sigh. Might as well see what his foster parents think, before deciding on his own. He glanced at Laf, and caught his friend's eyes. Alex nodded, eliciting a smile from John and Laf, who reached over and gently squeezed his new brother's hand. They stood for a quiet moment, before splitting up to grab their stuff and get ready.

They said nothing as they grabbed clothes from their respective rooms, changing and brushing their teeth in silence.

They made themselves breakfast, slotting bread into the toaster and pouring out some coffee.

Martha came down just as they were washing their plates clean of crumbs. She was fully dressed in her usual blouse and slacks and looked quite tired, like she hadn't slept much.

Alex felt his stomach twist guiltily. She had been awake the entire night worrying about how much trouble he had caused; how long they would be able to keep him, how she was crazy for thinking she could handle some messed up orphan. How she'd tell him that they'd had enough, that they're getting rid of him.

"Alex, dear, you're not planning on going in today, are you?"

He shrugged, "I'm fine with going into school if you want me to."

Martha shook her head quickly, the corners of her mouth tipping into an endearing smile.

"No, George and I thought you could stay home with me until lunch, then I can go into work and you stay here alone until Gil gets home."

Alex nodded quickly, not wanting to cause any trouble by disagreeing.

"So you're fine with staying home alone from lunch until around four?"

Lafayette laughed, "Maman, Alex ira bien! He is nearly sixteen!"

Martha smiled, "of course, I'm sure Alex will be alright."

Alex sat at the table next to Martha as she ate breakfast, reading the paper. The election to Senate would be soon and the newspaper had run an article about potential nominees. A slight smile dawned his face when he spotted a name he recognised; George Washington.

He nudged Martha gently and showed her the section.

 _Among the potential democratic nominees for the 2018 Senate election is Mr. George Washington, one of the youngest favourites to win in the coming race for Senate. Washington is described as a liberal and progressive politician, i_ _ndeed, and if elected, he will be the first ever African American senator for the state of Virginia. Washington is known for his efforts in the campaign to elect democratic senator of Virginia Tim Kaine, as well as his passionate work in campaigns for young people and teen organizations in Virginia._

The article went on to describe George's views on different political issues, each one lining up closely with Alex's. Martha was scanning the article excitedly and after a few minutes of reading and re-reading, she jumped out of her chair and raced upstairs to where George was presumably still getting ready.

Alex sat awkwardly at the table before deciding to go back upstairs and say goodbye to Lafayette and John.

He moved up the stairs slowly, holding his rib tightly to make sure the injury didn't worsen.

Laf and John were just grabbing their bags when Alex entered.

"Hey!" He grinned, flashing a shy smile at John.

"Mon ami, I hope you will be okay here alone. I could always convince maman to let me stay home."

Alex shook his head, he knew Lafayette would want to be with John and Hercules as school, he was just asking for politeness' sake. He didn't actually want to spend a whole day with Alex.

"No, no. Go into school, I have an English essay to write anyway. Don't worry about me."

Lafayette shrugged and picked up his rucksack. John did the same and patted Alex on the shoulder.

"I'll call the house phone at twelve thirty, yeah? We can chat."

Alex smiled at the though of chatting with John later, trying not to think of the inevitable anxiety the call would cause.

Alex nodded, not missing the subtle expression of knowing on Lafayette's face. He blushed slightly and ushered them downstairs.

He waved them goodbye as they walked down the road to school, watching the way the light turned the fine strands of John's hair a stark gold and how even in the early morning, his gait was eager and energetic.

The morning passed relatively quickly for Alex. George had seemed very pleased with the article and had taken it to work with him, obviously to show it to colleges and brainstorm more about the coming election.

After George had left, and despite Martha's insistence he rest, Alex helped to clean up after breakfast in the kitchen and hoover the living room.

At around ten he decided to start on his essay and left Martha in the living room, reading.

He pulled out his English book and the copy of 'The Kite Runner', read over the assignment again and looked over his notes on the first chapter.

The next few hours passed slowly to Alex as he scribbled a brief draft of the essay and started to set out writing the actual thing. By the time he had finished it was just past twelve o'clock and he'd written about four pages, filling up both sides. He knew it had to be over three thousand words and he was pretty sure he'd met that comfortably.

He was tidying away his pens and English book when he heard Martha walk across the landing and knock on his door.

"You can come in." He called, still not used to foster parents having so much respect for his privacy and space.

She opened the door and smiled.

"Are you writing that English essay?"

"I just finished it, yeah."

He saw her eyes scan over the book and papers littering his desk.

"Oh, is it on The Kite Runner?"

He nodded and she grinned. "I read it when it came out. You'll have to let me read the essay some time. Anyway, I've made some lunch for us before I leave to go back into work."

He gulped at the thought of sitting alone with Martha or anyone really, to eat. Having to make small talk, having to not choke or throw up on the spot.

He walked down behind Martha and entered the kitchen, feeling bad he hadn't thought to offer any help.

She'd made a simple lunch, a bowl of vegetable soup with a bread roll each, but he couldn't have felt more grateful.

He sat down and waited for Martha to start eating before he picked up his spoon. This was a habit he'd picked up years ago that he knew the Washington family had noticed, but decided not to mention.

She was a few spoonfuls into hers when he decided to start, tearing of a small piece of bread and dipping it into the soup.

As usual, Martha's cooking was delicious. He had a habit of eating his food extremely quickly, a souvenir from his rather eclectic upbringing, but in this house he'd started to learn to eat slower. The fear of his food being taken was still real but he'd learnt to not let it affect him.

Martha talked with him for a while about her job she worked in the district attorney office for Virginia and George's coming election.

He found this very interesting and rather than enter into the conversation, decided to let her talk and he listen.

He was half way through his soup when he sensed his stomach was full. He'd had coffee, toast and now soup and bread today. It was more than his stomach was used to.

Not wanting to appear impolite, especially as Martha had given him a smaller portion than herself because of his usually insubstantial appetite, he continued eating. He had gotten about two thirds of the way into the bread roll but had more than half of the soup left to eat.

This was not good. He didn't want to offend Martha but he didn't want to have to run upstairs afterwards to get sick.

He looked down at his plate and continued to eat. His stomach didn't immediately empty its self so he continued to nod and at least look like he was listening to Martha.

She was already finished and got up to wash her bowl, leaving Alex alone at the table. He had nearly finished the soup now and had eaten the last of the roll. His stomach was way too full now, he knew he was going to get sick.

He could feel bile burning his throat and waves of nausea rolling in his stomach.

He stood up hastily and brought the bowl over to the sink. He tipped the last of the soup down the drain, making sure Martha didn't see and rinsed his bowl.

He had to get to the bathroom, he had to, he had to. _Now!_

He put his cutlery and bowl back in the cupboard, wincing when they crashed into each other noisily and said a hasty 'thanks' to Martha before practically sprinting upstairs as fast as he could with a broken rib.

He stumbled into his bedroom and locked the door, running into the bathroom and collapsing in front of the toilet just in time before he got sick, his breakfast and lunch gone, leaving his stomach empty.

It was just his luck that as he was getting sick, he heard the house phone in the hall outside his room ring. He coughed and gagged for a moment before flushing the toilet and racing back out of the bathroom, his rib in agony from the gasping breaths he had taken in.

He picked up the phone just before it stopped ringing and answered in as normal a voice as he could muster, which still sounded pained and out of breath.

"Hey! Alex! It's John, just calling to check in."

He could taste the horrible flavour of vomit and phlegm in his mouth and his rib was stopping him from taking deep enough breaths.

"I-I'm fine, you?"

He hated talking on the phone, it always made him choke up and hyperventilate.

"Alex, are you okay? You sound a bit... odd?"

He tried to take in deep breaths but just hurt his rib more. He was starting to hear ringing in his ears and the world seemed too bright against his eyes. He squeezed them shut.

"No, I'm fine. Sorry."

He almost tuned everything out then, it was as though everything around him was carrying on a usual but he was removed from it, so far away from anything he was just a tiny dot.

John seemed to notice something was up and was asking calmly what was wrong.

He managed to choke something out, through shallow breaths and ringing ears.

"I-I'm not great with t-talking on the phone John."

There was that stutter again.

 _God, can you do anything right? You can't even talk to someone without that stupid stutter._

"Do you want me to go?"

Alex didn't know. He wanted to be with John but he didn't want this panic attack to get any worse than it was now - God forbid he pass out.

The room was still spinning and he realized he hadn't spoke for at least a minute; John could probably just hear him on the other end panicking and breathing like he'd just run a marathon.

He could hear someone coming up the stairs - Martha. He squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his fist harder.

He could hear John on the other end of the phone repeatedly saying his name and he was aware Martha was in front of him now, asking who was on the phone, what was wrong?

Martha took the phone from his hand and spoke to John.

"Is this Gilbert?"

Alex leant against the wall, trying to breathe.

"No. It's John, I think Alex is having a panic attack."

Martha looked at Alex and spoke again.

"We'll call back soon."

She hung up and immediately turned to Alex, who was at this point worried he might faint.

He slid down the wall and sat on the floor, head in his knees.

She crouched next to him and took his hand carefully.

"George counts your breaths when this happens, doesn't he?"

Alex nodded, still unable to slowly nodded, still unable to talk.

She nodded and started to count, not phased when he didn't count with her at first.

"One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. One, two, three..."

He joined in then, shakily at first but getting clearer and steadier after a few sets of tens.

Eventually, Alex looked up and made eye contact with Martha.

"Are you alright, Alex?"

He nodded his head and stood up, resting against the wall but feeling much better.

"Yeah, I'm just not amazing at talking on the phone."

Martha nodded. "I understand, that's perfectly alright. I'll call John back soon and tell him you're okay now."

He nodded gratefully and she frowned a little.

"Did you take your Iron and Prozac today?"

He shook his head and she nodded. "Okay, grab them from your room and come take them in the kitchen. I have Ibuprofen, too, for your rib."

Alex turned back into his room and before grabbing his pills, he grabbed some Listerine and swished a cap full around his mouth for a minute, the taste in his mouth not completely gone.

He spat into the sink and went back downstairs with his pills. There was a glass of water and an Ibuprofen tablet on the table. Alex popped one iron and one Prozac out of the pack and took the three pills in his hand, taking them all at once with a gulp of water.

He shuddered, God, he hated taking pills.

He could hear Martha on the phone in the living room.

"Yeah... he's fine, he had a panic attack."

Silence on Martha's end.

"Uh huh, yeah, I did."

"No, he forgot. He's taking them now. Yeah, I'm going into work soon, fifteen minutes. Bye."

He heard the phone beep as it was hung up and Martha walked back into the kitchen.

He drained the last of the water and smiled.

"I took them, thanks for everything."

She smiled again. "It's nothing, Alex. I'm going to work now, I just called John and told him you were okay."

He nodded and cleaned his glass out at the sink.

"Are you sure you'll be okay alone?"

Alex nodded. "No, go in, I wouldn't want you to miss anything important. I'll be fine."

Martha smiled.

"I'll get my bag. Gil will be home around four, George any time from five till six and me from half five onwards. My number is written on a Post-it on the fridge, just call it if you need me, okay?"

Alex nodded again and picked up the small boxes of pills from the kitchen table.

He followed Martha upstairs and went into his room to put them away again.

He heard her walking back downstairs with her bag this time and just before she left she called a quick goodbye up to him.

"Bye, Alex!"

"Goodbye, Martha!"

He heard the door shut and an engine start before he heard the sound of Martha's car driving further and further down the road.

He was alone.

Alex walked back downstairs, his rib hurting less now due to the painkiller.

He lay on the sofa and switched on Netflix, spending at least an hour watching TV shows.

It was strange being alone in such a huge house, hell, there were rooms here Alex hadn't even been into yet.

He went back up to his room after a while and picked up his notebook. He tried to think of something to write about.

He grabbed his pen from his school bag and chewed on the end for a moment before deciding on writing another entry to the journal he kept sporadically.

 _Having a few days at home rather than in school would seem like a blessing for some people, but for me, well, I only get bored. I had another panic attack today, I wish I could control them, it's horrible. I know the Washingtons hate them. They probably wish they'd fostered someone less messed up, I'm counting the days now to see how long I'll last here. I wonder if I can beat seven months. Probably not._

He always felt kind of foolish and childish after writing in his journal, but then again, it had pretty much kept him alive when he lived in the boys home, and with the Johnsons, the Harveys... with Pace even, and now he was here. To be honest, seven months ago he wouldn't have thought he'd make it this far.

He could remember that day well. He had been thirteen, living in a group home.

He couldn't block out the memories as they poured into his mind, flooding his thoughts like insects.

 _They were were clutched in his hand, a mixture of sleeping meds and fluoxetine. His hand trembled when he reached for the glass of water next to his bed._

 _The pills were shards of glass down his throat, no matter how much water he gulped down. Alex leant his head against the side of his bed. It was one in the morning, no one would come in for another eight hours or so, by then, well... He hoped it would be too late._

 _He was starting to become more familiar with his eyelids, his vision of hazy like he was looking through heat waves._

 _Dancing lights and spirals hung in his vision, he was starting to get at headache. He could feel himself slipping out of consciousness._

 _A person was next to him suddenly. The sky was a lilac dawn outside, hang on… He could have sworn it had just been one. Someone was yelling, hands under his arms, lifting him._

 _He was being dragged to the bathroom and someone's fingers were down his throat. There was the sound of running footsteps in the background. He gagged and coughed, throwing up into the toilet. Trying to fight off whoever was making him sick. He didn't want to throw up, he couldn't._

 _He was being lifted onto someone's back and pulled downstairs. Why were they going into Mrs. Newson's room?_

 _There was darkness, ringing and yelling in his ears. Red and blue lights screaming, the back of an ambulance._

 _Then, just white. Limbo, cold bathroom tile, winter sky white. The kind of white that seems choking and cold all at once._

Alex was on his feet now, not remembering standing up. He crashed his hand across the table and sent the boxes of pills flying onto the carpet.

He tensed up and sat back down, putting his face in his hands as dry sobs racked his body pain fully.

He was glad he was alone.

He had sworn he would forget that day and he'd almost convinced himself he had. Until days like this. Until Pace had found out, until he had started to tell him he shouldn't have lived that day. Eventually he started to tell himself that too.

He wished he didn't have to take these pills, every time he saw them he felt sick, like he might vomit. He considered pretending to lose them, or just admitting they weren't very helpful.

But how could he? Martha and George were paying for his meds in an effort to help him. He couldn't just tell them they'd been wasting their money.

He sat on his bed for a long time. Too tired to move but simultaneously wanting to do something, anything!

It was half past three when he decided to go downstairs for some water, something to take his mind off _that._

Lafayette would be home soon, school would have just ended. He wondered if Lee and George had done anything. He didn't think they would have, John didn't mention anything when he was on the phone with him or Martha, and Lafayette knew how to stay out of trouble. Unlike Alex.

He drained his glass and washed his face. His eyes were a little red, although he hadn't been crying, but he was tired. He thought the water might wake him up a bit.

At was around ten to four when he heard the door open and the greeting of several voices in the hallway.

"Ah yo yo yo yo yo! What time is it?" He heard Hercules hell, "showtime!" Two other voices chourused, that was John and Laf.

He grinned to himself and walked into the hallway, raising his hand in greeting.

"Alex!" Lafayette grinned and high fived his friend.

"Hey Alex!" Hercules was taking his injuries in with a piercing but non-judgemental eye.

He grinned and turned to John, who was smiling, relieved to see Alex okay.

The four of them went up to Lafayette's room and collapsed into more comfortable positions.

Alex lay on a beanbag next to John, their sides and knees touching, whereas Lafayette and Hercules were sprawled out across the bed.

Alex asked the question that he'd been dying to know the answer to for hours.

"Lee or George give you any trouble today?"

Laf gave Hercules and John a bitter look.

"What? What is it, are you okay?" Alex flicked his to each boy in concern.

"He didn't hurt any of us," John started, "they just acted like an ass all day. Stupid stuff, Lee cringed away when Laf or Herc went near him. George was yelling over my points in class and they both tried to trip us up in turn in the corridor."

Alex gritted his teeth. He was glad none of them were hurt and he knew his friends were tough, but it still angered him to know someone could be so malicious.

"More importantly though," said Hercules, keen to talk about something else.

"How are you? I only found out about everything at lunch when I couldn't find you guys."

Alex frowned a little, thinking of the concern he must have caused Herc.

"I'm fine, I'm taking ibuprofen and stuff, plus, I can rest up for a while."

John's arms were leant out behind him to support himself and his right hand was rested behind Alex, brushing his back. Alex leaned into the touch and smiled at John quickly.

"So, what did you do all day?" Laf was playing a game on his phone.

Alex shrugged.

 _Had two panic attacks, remembered the time I tried to kill myself, watched TV, you?_

"Not much, wrote an English essay, watched TV."

Hercules grinned, "nice, I had maths. Christ."

Alex laughed and Laf turned off his phone.

"I'm gonna make tea and coffee, Herc, come help."

Herc stood up and Alex opened his mouth.

"I know, coffee; black avec un peu sucre. John is tea with milk and no sugar."

Alex grinned and John sighed, "you know us too well."

The two boys left the room and John faced Alex.

He took his hand in his and looked at Alex in concern.

"Hey, I didn't want to ask in front of the other guys, but are you okay? You worried me on the phone earlier."

Alex smiled and rested his head on John's shoulder.

"I'm fine, talking on the phone just makes me choke. I'm not very good at it."

John smiled and squeezed Alex's hand. They embraced for a moment and John whispered in Alex's ear,

"Everything's gonna be okay."

 **Okay, that was kind of a filler chapter, don't worry, things get interesting when he gets back to school, soon!**


	11. Chapter 11

**heya! Hope you're enjoying the story so far, thanks so much for all the positive reviews and favourites I'm getting, it's really nice of you guys!**

 **By the way, I saw the most John Laurens looking guy recently, he was very cute. I almost died. Anyway. Thanks again to Kinzey (thatwritermadeofpotatoes) She's a great beta reader and very helpful!**

 **Anyway, this chapter isn't so grim... well. You might be feeling very angry and or protective by the end of it so... leave a review telling me what you think will happen, or any comments you have about this chapter!**

 **Trigger warnings: self hatred, bullying, mention of homophobia, anxiety, homophobic slur.**

The next few days dragged by at a snail's pace, each one the same. Repetitive, mind numbingly boring, grey.

Alex had never liked company other than those he was close too, but he couldn't pretend he didn't miss having someone to at least sit in a comfortable silence with.

His rib was healing itself gradually and he could laugh and yawn now with only the slightest pain. The bruising around his eye was now a collage of yellows and greys, no longer angry and swollen looking.

He'd taken four days off and then the weekend until he'd managed to convince George and Martha that he was okay, that he was fine to go back to school.

Of course, there was still the matter of what George and Martha were going to do about the incident that had taken place a few days earlier.

On the night before Alex was due to go back to school, George called Lafayette down to the kitchen to talk with him and Martha about the situation.

George was sat at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee in his left hand and book in front of him. Martha was to his right in her pyjamas with the crossword out on the table before her.

Lafayette bounced on with his usual enthusiasm and perched on the counter top, feet bare and, unusually, hair out in a large cloud of curls surrounding his head.

"Qu-est qui se passe?"

He looked up anxiously and rolled his shoulder.

"If this is about me punching Charles Lee, he deserved it."

Martha smiled slightly and shook her head, and George responded.

"No, Gil, it's about what happened on Monday, with Alex."

Lafayette frowned and didn't respond, a certain anger lurking in the depths of his eyes.

Martha pressed on.

"We want to know what you think we should do. You were there on Monday."

Lafayette thought for a moment and fiddled with the end of his hair.

"I-I... Alex maintains he never saw who did it, although, he talks like he knows we don't believe him."

George sighed, "I don't know how we can go to Principal Adams if Alex won't accuse these boys of anything."

Lafayette drummed his fingers against the counter top. "Mais, we saw Lee hurt him, and he called me a... well, you know."

He trailed off there, not making eye contact with his parents. George felt anger and concern stab at his heart. Part of him pitied and despaired over these boys, how they'd been raised to believe some were lesser due to who they loved. But part of him felt a hot and surging rage that anyone could disrespect his son in such a way.

"Yes, but you also punched Lee in the face." Martha calmly said. "If Alex stays out of this matter, Adams could have reason to suspend you for that."

Lafayette was clenching and unclenching his fist, his face frustrated and livid.

"Mais, c'est ne pas juste! C'est fou!" His volume was rising slightly. Not quite a yell but a more than adequate expression of anger and resentment.

"Lafayette, English with us please."

He took a deep breath and let his fist curl open. George could see crescent moon imprints where his nails had dug into his palm.

"It's not fair. We can't report them because they've made a threat to Alex and if we do, I might be suspended!"

Martha and George looked at each other, the former sighed and nodded at her son.

"That's basically it summarized. Do you think we should talk to Alex about it?"

Lafayette shook his head.

"I think Alex wants to forget this happened. He has a lot to deal with at the moment. This is more to cope with over everything else."

George pressed his palms to his eyes and leant back in his chair.

"So the best thing to do is to let it go?"

Martha reached forward and took her husband's hand gently.

"I think that is what we're getting at here."

The kitchen was silent then, the air thick with emotions floating and twisting around them like smoke. Anger, concern, frustration, to name a few.

Lafayette slid off the counter top and walked towards the door.

"I'm going to talk to Alex."

He didn't wait for his parents to respond, instead marching out of the kitchen silently. George knew he wasn't angry at them, rather at the situation they were in.

Alex was lying on his bed reading the only book he'd brought with him from his previous families. It was a Harry Potter book, a beaten and worn copy of the fourth one, and was missing a back cover. The series had become a sort of comfort blanket for him. It was by no means his favourite book, or even series, but something about it was just warm and comforting. It was pure escapism.

He jumped slightly at a knock on his door. Alex shut his book and got up to open the door.

He smiled at Lafayette when he saw his foster brother at his door, but this smile dimmed somewhat when he noticed the stormy expression on the boy's face.

"Laf? Everything good?"

He didn't respond and instead walked into Alex's room, flopping face first onto his bed.

"Tout est merde, Alexander."

Alex frowned. "What do you mean?"

"The sun will swallow us all, we're going to die eventually. Nothing we do really matters, the universe doesn't care about us."

Alex laughed at this. "Okay, Nietzsche, what's really up?"

Lafayette sat up suddenly.

"How can you let Lee and George just get away with this?"

Alex stiffened.

"I've no problem with beating the shit out of them for calling you a fag."

Lafayette huffed, "that's not what I mean. I punched Lee for that. I'm talking about what they did to you Alexandre."

"He just grabbed my rib, I can deal with-"

"He broke your rib, punched you in the face and strangled you!"

Alex shook his head, his heart pounding. "I never said that. I never saw who it was."

Lafayette ran a hand through his hair, "Alex, why do you say this? No offense is meant, but I don't believe you. Neither does John."

They think you're a liar. They hate you. John thinks you're a liar, he hates you, too. He hates you, he hates you, and he hates you.

"I-I..."

He sat down next to Lafayette who put his arm around his foster bother gently.

"Alex? You can tell me anything."

Alex sighed and shook his head.

"Lee and George are assholes, but they're intelligent ones. I can't risk them hurting you or John or Herc. Hell, even Eliza, and I barely know her."

Lafayette gripped Alex's shoulder tightly but loosened his hold immediately when Alex flinched and stiffened.

"Is that what this about?" Lafayette asked.

Alex stood up and started to frantically pace.

"Just forget I said anything, Laf. Can we just leave it? Just forget it ever happened?"

Lafayette looked pityingly at his foster brother. Alex hated it. He hated people's sympathy, he hated that his life was one long sob-story.

"Alex... I think you should talk to maman et papa about this."

He stopped pacing immediately and shook his head.

"No. Look, Martha and George are great, so, so great. But… well, they care too much about this whole thing. I can take a few punches. God knows I've dealt with worse."

Lafayette stood up now, angry.

"That is the point, Alex! You've been through too much! Why should you get any more crap like this?"

Alex had taken a couple of steps away from Lafayette now. His anger scared him, he knew the warning signs. Raised voice, sudden movements, shaking hands. He'd come to associate that with pain.

Lafayette stopped himself and took in the boy in front of him.

"Je suis desolé. I'm not angry at you, Alex."

They both sat back down on the bed and Lafayette placed a steadying hand on his brother's shoulder.

"I just can't stand seeing you hurt, Alexander."

Alex couldn't help feeling his eyes sting with tears at that. He blinked a few times and nodded.

"That's the reason I have to forget about this. I won't watch you get hurt."

"Alex, I can take care of myself."

Alex smiled and faked a yawn. He'd had three cups of coffee today, he would get tired by four AM maybe, but not now.

"I'm tired, Laf, can we talk about this tomorrow?"

"You mean never..." Lafayette grumbled, standing up in grudging assent.

"Bon nuit, Laf."

His foster brother sighed but smiled.

"Bon nuit, Alex."

And with that, he left the room.

The next morning dawned on a cool, bright day. Alex woke to the sound of his alarm at quarter to eight.

He groaned and sat up, rubbing his eyes with exhaustion.

He couldn't remember his dream last night, but he thought it had been a nightmare. He could feel remnants of a vague sense of dread in his chest.

That probably wasn't the ideal way to start the day.

He grabbed a pair of boxers, blue jeans, a shirt and a green sweater. Bleary eyes and uncoordinated movements, he stumbled into his clothes and brushed his hair and tied it into a knot.

He looked in the mirror and was relieved to see his bruises were healed almost entirely. In fact, if you weren't too close to him, you might just overlook them.

He splashed his face with water and enjoyed not having any make up to put on over a bruise or a scarf to strategically wrap around his throat. He was used to having to take these kind of precautions since he'd lived with the Johnsons.

He could hear stumbling and French cursing in Lafayette's room as the teenager was dressing and getting ready clumsily. He wasn't exactly a morning person.

Alex opened his door onto the landing and walked downstairs. His rib was still painful but he'd learnt to deal with it. He couldn't say he wasn't eager for it to heal though.

He pressed the button on the kettle and filled one mug with instant coffee and placed a tea bag in the other for Lafayette.

He grabbed a bowl from the cupboard and poured some cereal into it for himself. One positive from the last week or so was that he thought he'd gained a little weight. He was by no means at a healthy point yet but he felt slightly less emaciated and more... scrawny?

Lafayette walked into the kitchen just then. His hair was tied in its usual ponytail and he was wearing black jeans and a red tank top.

Alex passed him the mug of tea and Lafayette grinned.

"Alex, mon chèr, you keep me alive!"

Alex smiled slightly and poured milk into his cereal.

They ate breakfast quickly and went upstairs to grab their bags and brush their teeth. They were just about to leave when Martha and George came downstairs, both in their work clothes.

"Oh! Morning, Gil, Alex. We overslept a little, I think."

Martha yawned after saying this and covered her mouth.

"Au revoir, maman, papa!" Lafayette leaned in to hug his parents while Alex smiled awkwardly at the side.

"Good luck at school, you two, stay safe." George smiled but there was an air or concern hidden behind his words. Martha wrapped Alex in a sort of one armed hug and key him go quickly, waving the two boys goodbye when they walked out the front door.

Alex sat in his homeroom, nestled into a corner reading. He figured no one would disturb him there.

He felt his stomach clench with dread when someone slid into the seat next to him. He dared not look up, assuming the worst.

To his surprise, instead of the icy voice of Charles Lee or the sarcastic tones of George Frederick, he was met by the cheerful tones of Eliza.

He smiled and looked up at her.

"Alexander! What's up?"

He grinned, "Not much, just glad to be back at school."

She nodded. "Yeah, I heard you'd been off a while. Are you okay?"

He hesitated take this and fiddled with a page in his book.

"I'm fine, just was a bit sick."

That's only technically true...

She nodded sympathetically and grinned again. She was just as cheerfully adorable as he remembered, her kind smile lighting up the corner and giving off a protective, caring aura.

"You're reading Harry Potter?"

He blushed at this and nodded, embarrassed.

"I-I guess I've a-always read it. S-since I was a k-kid"

She smiled again at this. "Nah, don't be embarrassed. I love it, too!"

They continued talking for a while, Alex coming to like her more and more. Her laugh was charming. It sounded like friendship and made him think of staying up late with popcorn and a TV series.

The teacher came in and they had to stop talking as he took roll call.

Alex had French next whereas Eliza was taking German.

They split up at the door of the classroom, both going different directions. Alex smiled after Eliza as she walked off with another girl wearing bright red lipstick and a red lacy tank top.

He grinned over at Lafayette and John and took his seat in front of them. They chatted for a while, the class slowly filling up around them.

Monsieur Grants walked in then, prompting the class into silence. He had just sat down at the desk when two boys walked in, laughing loudly and pushing each other.

Lee and George.

Alex met John's eye, who smiled reassuringly and gave him a tiny nod.

Charles and George walked to their desks and slumped down, already looking bored.

Alex didn't think they'd seen him, he sighed internally and opened his French textbook as Monsieur Grants started conjugating a verb in the subjunctive tense on the board.

He was writing the date into his copy book when he felt someone's eyes on him. He looked up, already feeling sick.

Lee was staring at him, mouth stretched into a grin that promised pain, his eyes cold and harsh.

Alex scowled and looked back down at his copy book, not wanting to humour Lee any further.

The lesson passed mostly uneventfully apart from the rather off putting way Lee looked at him every time Alex glanced in his direction. He didn't like the expression on his face. It looked almost… amused. Coldly complacent seemed the best way to describe it.

He did his best to ignore this and continued his work as usual, translating from the textbook easily and accurately. Monsieur Grants had given him an extra sheet to work on so he focused all his effort into that.

After that class he walked with Lafayette to Science, John had gone to meet Hercules in art class.

Science had never been one of Alex's good subjects. Well, what he meant was he wasn't naturally drawn to it like he was to English or French. He only got good grades because he worked so hard.

The sciences building was large and airy, with big windows and light blue walls. Their teacher was a small woman with white hair and wrinkles. Lafayette warned Alex to keep on her good side.

Thankfully, Lee and George weren't in this class, so Alex actually managed to relax somewhat and get some work done.

Break time came eventually and Lafayette suggested they go out to meet John and Hercules on the field, which was where they'd hung out since freshman year.

The sun was beating down on the school yard, making everything look like a scene from the outsiders. The he eat was dry and dusty, it made Alex think of summers in New York when subway carts became his home and you could hardly see one nod of the block from the other, due to the heat haze.

Hercules and John were lying sprawled out under the shade of a large oak tree, their bags discarded next to them and their eyes closed.

Lafayette flopped down noisily next to Herc, making him jump and open his eyes. He playfully shoved Laf and lay back down, resting his hands beneath his head.

Alex lay down next to John and closed his eyes, glad for the opportunity of peace in the middle of the school day.

John turned over onto his side to face Alex, he was chewing on the end of some grass and his hair was golden syrup in the sun. Alex couldn't help but look at his lips, remembering how he'd kissed them that night, just last week.

"Lee or George give you any trouble?"

Alex shook his head, snapped out of his reverie.

"Nah, they don't seem super bothered about me. Which is fine." He left out the eerie looks Lee had given him.

John smiled and closed his eyes. He even had tiny freckles on his eyelids...

The four of them lay in the sun for a while, laughing and chatting.

How do you guys know Eliza?"

Alex plucked grass next to him and twisted it between his fingers.  
Lafayette smiled fondly. "We've come up to high school together since elementary. Her sister, Angelica, is the debate club head and her other sister, Peggy, is the funniest person you'll meet. Angelica is a junior and Peggy is in freshman year."

John grinned, "Eliza is pretty fearless. She's always standing up for herself and Maria when Lee and George are assholes"

Alex looked at John curiously. "Maria?"

Herc nodded and responded for him. "Eliza's girlfriend. She's Pan. Came out last year. Pretty much everyone was cool about it besides George and Lee. Well, maybe not that Seabury dude."

Alex frowned, "Yeah... they didn't strike me as the most forward thinking bunch..."

John leant on his elbows. "Speaking of debate, the first club meeting is on Thursday at lunch time."

Alex glanced sharply up and grinned. "I'm looking forward to it! Any of you guys in it?"

John shrugged. "I go to the meetings but I'm not on the team, yet, I'm hoping that will change this year. Laf and Herc normally come to watch."

Alex grinned and rolled back onto his back, maybe he could actually enjoy his life here...

Stop it. You can't get too comfortable, soon they'll realize how much of a freak you really are. Will they want to be your friend then?

Alex's chest tightened and he closed his eyes, not allowing himself to look at his friends. They'd be better off without him. They didn't need him, he was just something else to worry about.

The bell rung faintly to their ears and they leapt up, grabbing their bags. Alex had history with all of them, and American politics afterwards by himself.

The halls were heaving as usual and Alex tried to keep his breathing under control. He wasn't exactly claustrophobic but large crowds made him feel trapped. If he had a panic attack there'd be no escaping...

He tightened his grip on the strap of his bag and pushed his way through the crowds, keeping Lafayette's bouncing ponytail in sight.

The history class room was nearly full when they arrived and, to Alex's dread, Charles and George were sat in the back row. They looked up at him as he entered and Lee shot him a cruel smile. He did nothing however and turned back to George. Lafayette ignored them and pushed Alex into his seat next to John. The four of them sat in the second row, in a line next to each other.

The class progressed quickly. Alex had always found history fascinating and he hardly noticed the murmuring and occasional laughter coming from the boys behind him.

They were covering the civil rights movement in America and he and John followed the story eagerly, taking notes every other second in their books.

The bell went just as the teacher was explaining the Montgomery bus boycott and Alex grudgingly threw his stuff into his backpack.

American politics was only two rooms down so when he said goodbye to the others he was alone, early for class.

Then, the last people came out of history and walked towards where he was standing. Lee and George. He didn't move, just stood there, waiting for class. He hoped they'd just ignore him. He wasn't so lucky.

Lee and George stopped in front of him and stood there. There was that familiar look in Charles' eye. Alex didn't like it, it promised pain. George just stood there, with his usual nonchalant smirk plastered across his face.

"Can I help you?"

He had just realized they were alone in the corridor.

"Your parents didn't even care enough to do anything, did they? You come home, face rearranged and they do nothing."

Alex stiffened at the mention of his parents. They were dead. Did they know he was a foster kid?

George laughed. "He's an orphan. No one left to care."

Lee smiled. "Of course, you're staying with that French one. What's it like? Living in a house where you're just an after-thought?"

Alex didn't want to dignify Lee with a response but his tongue was burning with a stream of insults he longed to hurl and him.

"What's it like being such a nobody that you have to compensate for lack of personality by being an dick?"

He didn't even regret it, a smirk was still spread across his face when Lee's punch landed in his stomach. He curled in over the fist and gasped in shock, trying to step away from the two boys, but his back was up against the wall.

Lee stepped forward and grabbed Alex's face with strong, crushing fingers. He forced asked to look at him and snarled.

"You're just an orphan, immigrant, waste of space. You think anyone actually likes you? No one does. They all say it when you're not around."

He let go of Alex's face and turned around to George, walking away to stand further down the corridor as students poured in from either end. Alex clutched his stomach tightly and rubbed his jaw.

He tried not to think of what they'd said to him and shut his eyes.

If they believe all that stuff too, it has to be true. You really are just a waste of people's time. A waste of space.

He took a few deep breaths and walked into class, taking a seat right at the back of the room.

 _No one wants to see you. Don't draw attention to yourself. Say silent. Stay still. You don't matter anyway_.

 ** _That's grim... anyway, hope you enjoyed. Leave a review and follow / favourite!_**


	12. Chapter 12

**Wow, you guys are really nice! Keep reviewing and following (if you want!)**

 **Anyway, my beta reader Kinzey (thatwritermadeofpotatoes) is still helping me out and Is being very patient and helpful with me!**

 **Trigger warnings: bullying, self hatred, memories of past abuse, physical bullying.**

Alex said nothing to any of his friends about what had happened with Lee and George outside American Politics. It hadn't been that bad. His stomach was a bit bruised, big deal. It wasn't like he'd broken a bone or anything.

Lee and George left him alone for the rest of the day. After that class he had drifted through the day in a daze. Not really focusing on anything but his work, often not even hearing people when they spoke directly to him.

Lafayette seemed to notice something was up on the walk home. Alex, who was usually very quiet anyway, didn't talk at all, instead responding with nods and shrugs.

"Alexander, tu vas bien?"

Alex looked up at Lafayette in surprise and quickly nodded his head.

"Oui, ça va bien. Just lost in thought."

Lafayette grinned.

"À quoi tu penses?"

Alex waved his hand in what he hoped was an air of nonchalance.

"Rien. Ce n'est pas important."

Lafayette decided to drop it. After all, this was the least of all the strange and admittedly worrying habits Alex had. He could deal with a bit of silence.

That evening dragged by uneventfully. Alex and Lafayette retired to their rooms quickly to complete their ever-growing pile of homework they'd received. This was not to say Lafayette was antisocial by any means. In fact, that was the main difference between the two of them.

While Lafayette regularly went for breaks to get some water or chat with Martha and George, Alex didn't leave his room once until dinner, three and a half hours after he'd gotten home.

Alex stayed up far too late that night. Even he, the paragon of staying up till ungodly hours, was worried about how he would cope with drowsiness the next day.

He'd only meant to stay up until eleven. He had sworn to himself he'd complete all of his homework that night and he had... at only ten. The rest of the night was devoted to an essay he'd been meaning to write for days. It was one he was particularly excited to complete, a scathing critique of immigration policy in the USA and the attitude towards said immigrants.

 _It seems to me, a matter of national shame, that in a country founded by immigrants, the term has somehow become a pejorative one. Politicians and talking heads perpetuate ideas about non-white, working class immigrants to advance their personal agenda, which has in turn created the cultural fear of this group today. In a study done by the USA council of immigration in 2015, it was found that out of criminal offenders and felony charges, immigrants are one of the lowest offending groups. Xenophobes dislike not the fact that these people have immigrated, but the fact that these people are different from them. That they are largely non-European, sometimes non-English speaking and often not rich. Immigrants are some of the hardest working groups in the country; they pay tax, earn legally and contribute to our society. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for many in America's top one percent._

Alex had written page after page on the subject, barely even looking up from his notepad until he noticed the room getting lighter. He looked up towards the window and, sure enough, the morning sun was streaming in through the curtains.

A quick glance at the clock told him it was six in the morning.

 _Shit. You are not sleeping tonight. Well, today._

He sighed and closed his notebook. He might as well eat some breakfast and get dressed, there was no point in him trying to get some sleep, it took him hours to even fall into a light doze.

He walked into his bathroom and pulled at the bags under his eyes. They were dark and purple, he looked like a coffee addict locked in a room without caffeine for a week.

Deciding to compensate for his haggard appearance with his outfit, he pulled out his nicest jeans, which were black and slim fitting with panels of denim over the knees. Deciding quickly on a plain white button down and a burnt sienna sweater he pulled these clothes on and admired the effect in the mirror.

 _At least you look like a fashionable corpse._

He stepped out on to the landing quietly, walking down the stairs without even making a creak. He'd memorized the pattern of steps that made no noise when stepped upon. He liked to move around the house without people noticing.

All was quiet and the kitchen was bathed in a milky, thin white light. He boiled the kettle and poured himself some coffee as quietly as he could, wincing when the cabinet door slammed rather loudly.

He didn't bother with breakfast. It was too early to eat and besides, he didn't feel like he really deserved to.

It was another hour and a half before he heard Lafayette's footsteps. Alex was sitting at the kitchen table reading the newspaper when he came in.

"Morning..." He yawned, walking over to the kettle and pouring himself some coffee.

"What time did you wake?" Lafayette slid some bread into the toaster and sat down next to Alex.

"Only fifteen minutes ago, not too early." He lied, knowing it would concern Lafayette if he knew Alex hadn't slept at all.

Lafayette frowned and tapped Alex's under eye.

"You look tired, mon petite lion."

Alex chose to ignore the nickname and shrugged.

"I have my coffee, I'm okay."

Lafayette seemed like he wanted to ask more but his toast popped at that very moment and Alex turned back to the newspaper.

George came down the stairs just then and smiled at Alex.

"Good morning, Alex, you look tired. Sleep much?"

Lafayette turned around from his toast and nodded, "I said so also."

Alex didn't like all their eyes on him and seemed to shrink into his chair.

"I'm fine, honestly."

George looked unconvinced but, like Lafayette, dropped the subject.

He noticed Alex had no food in front of him however, and sighed.

"Have you eaten?"

Alex jumped and looked up from the newspaper. He hesitated for just a second before gulping down some coffee and nodding.

"Yeah... cereal."

George suspected Alex was lying and felt concern twinge inside him. He nodded curtly, not wanting Alex to think he thought him a liar.

He was constantly torn inside himself, trying to find a balance between caring for Alex and watching over his every move or letting him have independence and space.

He made a mental note to mention this odd behaviour to Martha later.

Alex and Lafayette left a short time later, the former had taken his medication under George's watchful eye and had grabbed the little change he had to buy some coffee in the school cafeteria before roll call.

Lafayette waved goodbye to him in the corridor and they split ways, going in opposite directions to their home rooms. The next class they had together was third period.

Once again, after buying coffee in the school canteen, he chatted with Eliza in the corner of their classroom. She was exceptionally funny and never failed to make him laugh about something or other.

She was also a fervent follower of politics and they soon found themselves in a passionate discussion over the latest president. Alex rarely got to let go and talk freely with anyone, but when he chatted to Eliza he felt understood and listened too.

He had always been talkative by nature. It had endeared his mother and made his brother laugh, but people in America hadn't taken kindly to it. Especially when he mixed French, Spanish and English all in one sentence. He'd learnt to hold his tongue within six months of being in the foster care system.

Eliza talked a little more about her girlfriend, Maria. She was a sophomore, like them, and was apparently an incredible dancer. The look Eliza had in her eyes when she spoke about Maria was heartwarming, he wondered if he looked like that when thinking of John.

He had English next, with Eliza, so they walked to class together keeping up the avid conversation the whole way. They took the same seats as last time and Alex unpacked his bag, placing everything neatly on his desk.

The door behind them opened and Alex managed to keep his flinch small, relatively unnoticeable to an eye unused to paranoid foster kids, when he heard the familiar, sharp intonations of Charles Lee and the harsh, monosyllabic laughter of George.

The majority of teenagers hadn't had to learn to recognize every pitch chance or subtle hint of anger in a person's voice to survive. Ordinary people couldn't equate the tension in a person's jaw to the exact amount of pain they could expect to receive. Alex knew every danger sign, no matter how slight and he could pick up many in Lee's voice alone.

He kept his eyes on Eliza and continued to look as though he was listening, clamping his hands together under the table to make sure they didn't tremble.

Before Eliza could even notice a change in his demeanor, Miss Monroe had swept into the class room and was logging into her computer.

Alex zoned out for a while then, which was disconcerting to say the least. He had always enjoyed English, it was one of the few subjects he consistently looked forward to. To say it was alarming that he found himself slipping out of focus during the class was an understatement.

He couldn't help but think of what Lee had said to him yesterday.

 _Do you think anyone actually like you? No one does._

 _Just a waste of space._

 _No one left to care._

It wasn't like this talk was anything new to him. It was nothing Pace hadn't growled at him through gritted teeth as he pushed his hands tighter around his throat. Nothing he hadn't told himself in the middle of the night when the darkness crushed down on him and he curled his knees to his chest, palms pressed firmly to against his eyes.

But it still stung.

Their essays were collected and Miss Monroe put up an extract they were supposed to be analyzing on the board. Alex threw himself into this task, keen to distract himself from the thoughts running one thousand miles an hour through his mind.

He pulled his fountain pen from its case and got to work, not even stopping when he noticed the ink had splattered onto the tip of his nose in tiny droplets like rain.

Forty-five minutes later the bell rang, just barely registering in his brain. He blew on the ink in his copy book for a moment before packing his things away and nodding goodbye to Eliza. He left the class quickly, he had American politics next but he wouldn't make the same mistake he did last time.

To avoid arriving to early and running into Lee and George, he ducked into a bathroom on the way and locked himself into a cubicle.

Alex sat on the closed lid of the toilet and buried his head in his knees. He took long, deep breaths like Katherine had taught him.

 _One, two, three, in. One, two, three, out. One, two, three, in. One, two, three, out._

He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek and counted to three minutes. By then he assumed everyone would be in class and he could walk in unhindered.

At three minutes he stood up and willed himself not to collapse from exhaustion. Of all the days to get no sleep...

He arrived just before his teacher walked in and got to his desk in the corner without as much as a glance from Lee or George.

They continued with the subject of civil rights and at one point Alex actually found the courage to put up his hand and contribute to a class discussion they were having.

"I uh, I don't think racism is over in America, I mean... if you look at a graph of active hate groups in America, the numbers actually growing. Just because people are more or less equal legally, doesn't mean people's attitudes change."

The discussion was about whether racism was over yet. Alex hasn't meant to get involved but some people were just being so aggravating that he couldn't help but voice his own opinion.

Their teacher, a tall man with a receding hairline had smiled and nodded in agreement. He slumped back into his desk and scanned the classroom. Sure enough, Lee was glaring at him with a menacing look in his eyes. Alex gulped and tugged at the end of his sweater, wishing he had pockets to shove his hands into.

When the bell rang he waited behind for as long as he could manage without drawing attention to himself. Under the pretense of picking up pens he'd spilt 'accidentally', he watched Lee and George leave the class room. His plan was to wait until they'd left the corridor before he made his way to the yard outside for break.

When he was almost positive they'd be gone he shoved the last of his stuff into his bag and hoisted it into one shoulder. Their teacher had left a while ago, Alex had listened to his footsteps disappear down the corridor.

He was halfway across classroom when the door opened and George and Lee stepped in. The look on their faces was identical. He didn't even know how to begin to explain it, but he didn't like it. It was all too familiar to the many promises of a beating he'd gotten from his previous foster parents.

He clenched his bag harder, feeling the skin over his knuckles stretch tight.

"I met you literally _last_ week. What could I have _possibly_ done?"

He forced himself to sound unconcerned. It worked better than he had hoped, his voice taking on an uncaring, almost bored tone.

Lee stepped closer towards him, closing the gap between them until it was just under a meter.

Neither of them responded, instead throwing each other a shared, sly glance.

All at once there was a flurry of movements and George had darted behind him. Strong, large hands seized his wrists and were pinning them behind his back. He tried to break free but a punch thrown to his gut stunned him, knocking the air from his lungs. He tried to summon his breath back but another punch landed, and another and another.

After at least ten punches were thrown by Lee before he felt one of the hands on his wrists move away and stretch out to halt his attacker.

"Look at him, he can't breathe. It's pathetic, but you don't want to kill him."

Alex gasped in a huge breath and hung limply, the only thing keeping him on his feet was the crushing hold of George's hands, ensnaring him in an impenetrable grip.

"What..." He gasped out, glaring at Lee, "is your problem?"

Lee shrugged. "You're an immigrant, you're an orphan, you think you're smart and you get on my nerves."

Alex laughed and winced immediately. "You forgot to mention that your fragile masculinity makes you feel you have to beat on people half your size."

You would think he had at least a shred of self preservation, otherwise he wouldn't go out of his way to taunt someone who had no qualms on breaking his ribs and smashing his face. Not really.

Before Lee could punch him again, one of George's hands reached up and grabbed his hair so hard he heard a few strands split. Alex let out a whimper of pain and tried to stamp on George's foot. He yanked his head to one side and snarled.

"You'd better shut your mouth if you've got any sense left. Or did he punch it all out of you?"

Alex was too stunned and out of breath to respond but yanked his hand free from the iron grip and flipped Lee and George off, making sure his eyes showed as much cold fury as he could muster.

Without so much as a warning, Lee grabbed Alex's finger and nodded at George to hold him in place again. Alex tried to struggle free but it was no use, he cursed himself for letting himself get this scrawny.

Lee slowly pushed Alex's finger back, moving it further and further away from its natural position. Alex hissed in pain but stared straight into Lee's eyes, not giving him the satisfaction of looking away.

"Do you want me to break this? I could, I broke your rib didn't I?"

Alex snarled but didn't respond, his finger was screaming at him now, the skin where it met his palm was white with tension.

"If you ask me to stop, I will. All you have to do is say so."

Alex shook his head and shut his eyes tight, his finger was approaching a ninety degree angle to his hand now.

Lee pushed down harder and Alex could feel the bone taught and on the verge of snapping. He bit back his pride and yelled in pain. Lee pushed just a little bit harder and he gasped, shaking his head frantically.

"Stop! Please, just stop!"

At once his finger was released and he shook it frantically, aware his eyes were blurred with tears.

Lee laughed down at him and George let him go, causing Alex to fall to the ground and lie crumpled up against the wall.

George smirked and let out a low laugh and Lee had a satisfied grin spread across his face.

"Have you ever seen anything more pathetic?"  
It was a rhetorical question but Alex responded anyway, desperate to win back some of his lost pride.

"Well, I'm looking at you two right now."

Lee laughed a horrible, false laugh and crouched down next to him. Abruptly, his smile dropped and it terrified Alex to see how quickly his expression could change.

He wrapped his hand around Alex's throat and squeezed, his hand clenching tighter and tighter.

Alex struggled and thrashed, landing a sharp kick on Lee's shin. This had the opposite of the desired effect however and only made the boy grip harder.

"Do you still think I'm the pathetic one? You should look at yourself now. Am I pathetic? Answer me!"

Alex shook his head frantically and clawed at the hands around his throat. He couldn't breathe at all, his vision was fogging up and his eyes were closing.

The pressure on his throat lifted and he breathed again frantically, his eyes still closed.

He didn't even look up when he heard Lee and George leave the class room.

He lay there in the rough, carpeted floor for a minute or so, trying to catch his breath back and stave off the panic attack he could feel lapping up against him like the tide.

He pulled himself to his feet not long afterwards of and examined his injuries, his brain switched over to auto-pilot.

Nothing on his face. That was good, easier to hide that way. He lifted his shirt up to his ribs and pressed firmly on the tender skin of his stomach. It was already a pinky purple and he was sure it would bruise black eventually.

There were fingerprint bruises around his neck but they didn't feel quite as sore as ones he'd gotten from Pace, or even Lee himself before. He'd let Alex go quicker than he had to.

Aside from that, his finger was okay. Not broken at the very least. The joint however, where his finger met the larger part of his hand, was puffy and swollen looking, already red and raw in colour. That would be difficult to hide...

He redid his hair in a ponytail and pulled his hood up to cover the bruises forming around his throat.

All things considered that hadn't been that bad. It was nothing he didn't get from Pace every night when he'd forgotten to do the dishes or whatever bullshit excuse the man could think up for beating him. He could handle it, he had to handle it.

He glanced at the watch and sighed. There was ten minutes left in break, so there wasn't much point in going outside, nevertheless he decided to at least make his way there. Maybe he'd meet John, Lafayette, and Herc as they went to the class they all had together.

He made his way across the field to the tree where they'd sat a day prior. Beyond the distant fencing edging around the field there was a slow suffusion of inutile loveliness, a high sun in a platinum haze with a warm, peeled-peach tinge pervading the upper edge of dove grey cloud. There was a line of spaced trees silhouetted against the horizon and the heat had stolen most of the azure from the sky.

The sight calmed him somewhat and he made his way towards the three figures sprawled out in the shaded sanctuary of the oak tree.

"Yo! Alex, what took you so long?"

Hercules was the first to spot him, propped up on his elbows, a lopsided grin perched on his face.

"Went to my locker and then the toilet."

Hercules shrugged and Alex lied down on the lush grass next to John. The bell didn't sound for a few minutes and they took the opportunity to steal some tranquility back from their hasty and fast paces lives.

All too soon, however, they were heading to class. Alex's body throbbed with the familiar tenderness and omnipresent pain he was used to after a beating.

He moved with a slight limp, not thinking anyone would notice his delicate movements and trembling hands. He didn't, however, notice Lafayette watching him as they entered the air conditioned halls of the main school building.

He sat in class next to John, gazing out the window absently. He was in- well, in all honestly he'd forgotten what class they were in. Oh. History, right? Yes.

He turned back to his book, ripping his gaze from the vast expanse of bleach cotton sky and catching John's eye.

John's mouth crinkled into a smile and his eyes sparked. He raised a quizzical eyebrow to Alex, as if to ask if he was okay.

Alex felt his heart beat a little faster and he shot back a smirk of his own, hoping it reached his eyes, that it looked genuine. Because it really was. No rare, sheepishly awkward grin of his could match John's grin however. Every time Alex saw it he felt warmer inside.

His friend's eyes softened a little and he turned back to the section they were reading, perfect mouth chewing on vermilion pencil.

After school, he and Lafayette walked home together as usual. It was unusually hot for a September day so Alex had taken off his sweater and tied it around his waist, also undoing the top two buttons of his white shirt.

He knew there was brushing around his neck so he pulled a few strands out of his ponytail and let them fall to frame his face, hoping that would be enough to distract from the faint traces of purple at his throat.

When they got home Lafayette persuaded Alex to come and sit outside with him in the yard, rather than shutting himself in his room until dinner.

He grudgingly agreed and grabbed a book from his room, unfurling out on the grass, his head in the shade of a willow tree and the rest of his body utterly soaked in golden sun.

"Are you okay, Alex? You looked in pain earlier." Lafayette was sitting on a chair next to him, homework laid out on a garden table in front of him.

"Of course," He lied quickly, "my rib is just a bit sore sometimes."

Lafayette narrowed his eyes slightly but nodded and suddenly beamed as though a thought had just crossed his mind.

"You and John seem very close, non?"

Alex blushed and looked away, horrified. Had he been that obvious?

Lafayette laughed, "Mon chèr, it is hard not to notice the way you look at each other. I am French. I know these things."

Alex rolled his eyes and grinned internally. Not 'the way you look at him', no. 'The way you look at each other.'

"Has anything happened yet?" Lafayette smirked, his altogether very French grin back on his face.

"No." Alex fibbed, not daring himself to make eye contact with his new brother.

"I don't believe you, but I will drop it. You're very embarrassed, petite lion."

Alex scowled at Lafayette and felt his cheeks burn, but said nothing. He couldn't ever be properly mad at Laf.

 **Thanks for reading guys! I slipped some more lams in there because the next few chapters will be a bit less fluffy. Angst is near.**


	13. Chapter 13

**Hello! Thanks to all reviewers! I will respond to you if you have a question but for now, mostly I just read them and giggle to myself because you guys are great.**

 **To lams pickles: well I don't know of that would work out, see, I'm a fifteen year old who's never had a boyfriend or girlfriend for longer than like a week. Lol. There are plenty of Hamilton fics about that stuff... I guess. There's 'archive of our own' too, which has a bit more fanfiction than this site has.**

 **To Ranger corpses: Yeah, I'm putting in French translations now. Sometimes when I write in French I want to put in a translation but it makes the text took all broken up and akward, but I think my readers understanding what the characters are saying is a bit more important than the 'aesthetic'.**

 **Kinzey thatwritermadeofpotatoes is still helping me out! Thanks Kinz!**

 **In this one George Washington and Laf are a bit reckless, Alex is sad, Martha is a boss and things are a bit angsty.**

Alex sat on his bed, the room lit up with a peachy, incandescent light around him. It was sunset and they were just about to have dinner. Well, everyone else would have dinner. He usually ended up sipping at water and pushing the food on his plate around with his fork.

He got up and started to change, taking of his shirt. Alexander examined his appearance in the mirror and shuddered slightly. His ribs were clearly visible through taught, stretched skin. His stomach had turned an ugly, mottled collage of stormy colours. There were faint traces of red edging the particularly bad bruises and they ached in the familiar way he had grown used to when living with Pace.

Aside from that, the cuts on his forearm were now visible and he winced when he saw how may there were. Some were pink, shiny stripes healed to scars over the past month or so and some were dark, sangune scabs from some time in the past few days.

His complexion had changed from it's usual dark, coppery beige to a sallow dun. He'd hoped that he might gain at least some colour back from the september sun but it seemed that his less than healthy eating and sleeping habits had cancelled it out.

He pulled off his socks and discarded them to the other side of the room before putting on an oversized shirt and collapsing onto his bed.

He lay there awake for what seemed like hours, but couldn't have been more than thirty minutes. When he got up again there was still a faded crimson hue seeping into his room from the sunset.

He reached into his top drawer and pulled out the metal tin he'd hidden there weeks ago. He pulled off the lid and curled up onto his bed, shutting out the part of his mind that was screaming at him to stop. That part of his mind wouldn't resurface until he'd finished. There was time for regret later.

 _No one left to care_

 _What's it like just being an after thought?_

When that later came, he dabbed at his arm with an old tee shirt and pulled his bed covers around him tightly. He fell into an uneasy sleep, completely forgetting about dinner. He was sure he would awake soon so he allowed his old tee shirt to absorb the blood currently leaking from his arm.

He awoke not long afterwards to a presence in his room near the door. Alex blinked blearily and looked up to see George stood there, his hand raised to knock on the wall. Even though the door was open and he could easily come and jerk Alex awake, he still had the courtesy to knock. It got stranger and stranger everyday, Alex mused.

He sat up and looked at the clock on the wall. He'd only been asleep for about thirty minutes, they hadn't even eaten dinner yet. They'd waited for him. Alex felt guilt clench in his stomach and he stood up quickly, letting the black tee shirt he'd lain under his arm fall to the ground.

He'd forgotten about the cuts.

"I thought you should probably come down for some dinner Alex."

Alex nodded and moved to his draw to grab his hoodie, praying that George hadn't seen the gashes on his arm. The room was only half lit, the curtains were open and a beam of light split the room in two. Alex reached to open his drawer and his arm rested in the light for a few moments, his cuts clearly visible.

He pulled his arm out of the light quickly and glanced fearfully at George, whose gaze was still fixed on the spot Alex's arm had been a moment earlier.

"Alexander..."

George's voice was sharp and crystal clear now, a world away from the usual gruff, amused tones he spoke with to Martha, Lafayette and Alex.

Alex jumped and turned to face him, his hand reaching not so subtly to cover his cuts.

"What are those on your arm?"

Alex stiffened and said nothing, his heart was pounding in his chest, he couldn't move. His legs had become lead weights.

George walked a few steps forward and Alex backed up, trying to put more distance between himself and his foster father.

"N-nothing. I'm fine."

George shook his head slowly, his face disbelieving and concerned. He walked forward again, doing his best to appear calm and non threatening as he reached out to gently take Alex's arm.

Alex flinched somewhat but didn't struggle against George's loose grip. He let his foster father examine the cuts of his wrist for a moment before dropping his arm and fixing the boy with a piercing stare.

"You did this?"

Alex snorted, though there was no amusement in his tone, "what does it look like?"

He bit his tongue, already regretting his words and started at the ground, awaiting the blow he was sure would land on his face any second.

When nothing happened he dared to look up at George and saw his eyes were full of sadness and concern.

"Alex... I- when did this start?"

Alexander shuffled slightly and fixed his gaze on George's collar.

"Since I was thirteen."

He heard George take a slow breath and took to opportunity to pull on his hoodie quickly, relaxing when he felt the thick material settle over his forearm, covering the red slashes.

"They were still bleeding Alexander."

He winced at the sound of his full name said in that tone and shrugged, not having quite mustered the courage to talk properly. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth.

George rubbed the back of his neck, seemingly at a loss for what to do.

"You should eat something now and we can bandage them and talk later."

Alex nodded numbly and shuffled out of the room behind George, his hand clenched tight on his forearm which was still stinging painfully.

Alex could already hear the low hum of chatter and the clink of cutlery in the kitchen below. They'd obviously started eating, which he had no problem with, he just felt bad he'd made George waste his time.

Martha looked up to George as they entered and a look passed between them. She raised her eyebrows inquisitively and he shook his head slightly and cleared his throat.

"Later." He murmured, as he passed behind her to grab a glass from the kitchen cupboard.

Alex slid into his seat next to Lafayette and the French teen nudged him conspiratorially.

"Alexandre, qu'est qui se passe?"

 _Alexander, what's going on?_

He kept his eyes on the plate in front of him and awkwardly tucked a strand of hair behind his ear.

"George as vu les coupures, ce n'est pas important."

 _George saw the cuts. It's not important_

Lafayette gaped at him, his eyes wide, "merde, Alex, ils seront fous!"

 _Shit, Alex, they'll be mad._

Alex buried his head into his hands, "je sais, je sais... j'ai tout baiser."

 _I know, I know, I fucked up._

Lafayette grasped Alex shoulder and shook his head frantically, "non, not because of that! Because-"

At that moment George sat back down at the table and Alexander looked up, settling back into his seat properly. Lafayette was cut off and looked pleadingly at Alex, as though trying to silently communicate with him.

Dinner was a quiet affair that evening, Alex barely registered what he was eating. Well, to be more accurate, what he was pushing around his plate.

He was dimly aware of George and Martha trying to start a conversation but couldn't muster more than a brief nod or shrug.

The panic in his gut was seizing him in an iron grip, there was a ringing in his ears and he could see the fork in his hand trembling.

Dinner ended far too soon. Alexander's near full plate was scraped clean into the garbage disposal and Martha stacked the empty plates and glasses next to the sink.

George stood up from his seat at the table and cleared his throat.

"Gil... Alex, Martha and I need to talk about something. Do you want to go to your room?"

It was phrased as a question but Alexander knew it was a command by the way George's stare fixed on his son and the nod he directed towards the door when he finished speaking.

Lafayette, to Alex's great surprise shook his head and moved towards Alexander, gently reaching out to take his hand.

"Gil," Martha's voice was gentle but firm, "this is not up to you. This is between Alex, George and me."

Lafayette moved even closer to Alex and the latter leant into the touch, glad to have a comforting presence there. If only he had John here right now...

"Laf can... Laf can stay." . Alex choked out, not making eye contact with anyone in the kitchen. What was the harm? He already knew about all of this.

He looked up to see George nodding and Martha looking between the three males.

"I still don't understand what's going on George."

She placed a gentle hand on her husband's shoulder and looked up at him, her eyes full of agitated concern.

George sighed and looked at Alex, who fiddled with his hoodie sleeve. Martha walked the few steps towards him and gently put her arm around his shoulders, hugging him close while Lafayette kept his grip on the teenager's hand.

"Alex, honey, is everything okay?"

Alexander looked at George desperately, not knowing how to explain the situation or able to muster up the courage to say anything at all.

"Alex, you could show her your arm."

Martha's eyes creased in confusion and looked curiously at Alex. The boy turned to look at Laf who held him tighter and let go of his hand so he could pull back the sleeve of his hoodie.

He didn't quite reveal the extent of the cuts along his arm, just showing the first few gashes so she knew what they were. Martha didn't gasp or cry out, she remained actually quite calm, but Alex could tell she was horrified.

"I saw them just before dinner." George had sat down at the table and was rubbing his face with his hand, as though in utter despair and confusion as what to do.

Martha still hadn't said a word but was now at the cabinet, pulling band aids from the top shelf. She hastened back to Alex, who carefully pulled his sleeve back again and let her tend to his cuts.

Lafayette guided Alex back to the table and sat him down gently, whispering to him in French under his breath.

George looked from Alex to Lafayette, his eyes narrowed.

"Gilbert, did you know about this?"

Lafayette looked up, his expression scared for the first time. He fiddled with his ponytail and nodded.

"How long have you known?"

Martha was next to them now, a mug of tea in her hand which she slid across the table to Alex. He wrapped his hands around it, warming them and took a tentative sip

"Uh... un mois?" Lafayette responded, knowing full well George wouldn't understand him.

"Gilbert, English with us please. As I have said before."

For the first time Alex had known him, he actually looked slightly angry. His jaw was set in a way that Alex was all to familiar with when it came to foster fathers and his eyes were impatient.

"A month..."

Lafayette's voice was meek and subdued, sounding so different from the usual excitable tones Alexander was used to.

Martha's face was stony and George's fist was clenched tightly, the dark skin of his knuckles light with the tension there.

"A month Gilbert? You've known for a month?"

Lafayette said nothing and stared down at his hand, his other arm still latched around Alexander's shoulders.

"Papa I-"

George was on his feet now, his posture stiff and his eyes furious.

"It's nearly October now Gilbert, you've known for a month," his voice rose to a near yell now, "and you didn't think _once_ to tell me?"

Lafayette was stood up now and his face was a mixture of defiance and shame.

"I didn't tell you because-"

George held out his hand, it was trembling slightly in anger and a muscle in his jaw twitched.

"I don't want to hear it Gilbert! You've known that Alexander's been doing this for a month! You didn't think to try and stop it! Is there anything else you've been keeping from me?"

If Alex hadn't been so terrified, George's anger would have been awe inspiring. His yell seemed to fill the entire room, reverberating off the kitchen walls. Lafayette was standing directly in front of his father now, he looked slightly ashamed of himself but not in the least bit scared.

Alex wanted to jump up and defend him, put himself as a barrier between his friend and this man, this man he had trusted but now appeared to be just as much of a threat as any foster father of his had been.

Martha had moved to stand beside George, attempting to calm him down and placing a hand on his forearm.

Lafayette was yelling in French, his flurry of words almost too fast for Alex to make out.

 _"Maybe if you'd actually paid any attention around here you'd have realised! Instead of leaving me, the fifteen year old, to deal with this mess! It isn't even remotely my fault you spend so much time working on the fucking Senate campaign you don't know what's going on in your own goddamn house!"_

Alex clapped his hand to his mouth and looked from George to Lafayette in horror. George threw a quick glance at him, his eyes narrowed with anger and his voice took on a ominous, low growl.

"Gilbert! For the very last time, English!"

George had taken a step forward but Lafayette wasn't deterred.

"Okay! Sure, a quick translation then!"

Lafayette's voice was more frantic know, cracking slightly but edged with a pervading fury.

"It's not my fault you have no idea what's going on in your own house! Yeah, sure, it's fair to leave the fifteen year old responsible for every burden that comes his way!"

Alex buried his face in his hands and felt his breathing quicken. He was just a burden on Lafayette. He was the reason this whole argument had started! He could feel Martha at his side but the yelling from his foster brother and father hadn't yet ceased.

She was rubbing slow circles into his back, whispering soothingly as the argument went on.

"Merde! What was I supposed to do? I freaked out!"

Lafayette and George were standing directly in front of each other, George's considerable stature towered over Lafayette, but he was not deterred. He only squared his shoulders and scowled up at his foster father.

"Gilbert! I expect better of you, if your brother is physically harming himself, it's common sense for you to tell us!"

"Jesus Christ! Aren't you listening to me? I said-"

Alex couldn't hear what Martha was saying over the yelling, he could just feel the panic overwhelming him. This was bad. It was never good when adults got angry, especially foster parents. George was going to hurt him. Hurt him. Hurt him-

But he deserved it! Didn't he? Lafayette was arguing for him, he was innocent in all of this! He wasn't the one who'd been cutting his own flesh every other night.

He was hyperventilating now, he could faintly hear Martha trying to say something, but her voice was lost in the mess of yelled words flying around the room.

He looked briefly up at her, his eyes even larger than usual with tears. Martha put her arm around him now, feeling his breathing getting faster and shallower by the second.

Alexander could feel his vision start to blur, he was going to pass out if he couldn't calm down soon. But how could he? Lafayette and George were still yelling at each other, the former's voice taking on a more desperate and frustrated tone.

He felt his shoulders slump forward as he briefly fainted, now only Martha's arm was holding him up, stopping him from collapsing forward onto the table.

Martha next to him stiffened and a voice louder and clearer than either George or Lafayette's yelled out amidst the verbal melee, silencing everyone immediately.

"SHUT UP!"

He had never expected such a yell to come from someone so tiny and kind, but now her face was livid and she was staring at her husband and son in a loss for words. She shook her head at them in disappointment before turning back to Alex and letting his head lean into her shoulder.

"One, two, three, four, five, one, two, three, four, five."

Lafayette and George where stock still, eyes fixed on Alex's trembling shoulders. Guilt and shame working its way onto both their faces.

Alex didn't count along with her but gradually allowed his breathing to mirror her calm voice.

After a minute or so of this continued before Alex had the strength to sit up in his chair and take slow sips of his tea.

Martha stood up and walked over to George and Lafayette, fixing them both with a piercing stare.

"And you talk abut not knowing what's going on in his own house Gilbert!"

Lafayette winced and nodded, throwing extremely apologetic looks Alexander's way.

"And George, you're an adult. You should know better than having screaming matches like this. Especially when Alex is in the room."

Alex cringed at this. He supposed it was obvious why he didn't like adults getting angry and yelling around him, but he didn't really like people mentioning it.

George looked shame faced and nodded, moving away from Lafayette to sit at the table next to Martha.

Alex decided this was as good a time as any to speak up.

"I... I asked Laf not to say anything to you."

Martha looked at Lafayette who nodded slowly.

"Why didn't you want us to know?" George was considerabley calmer now, his hand was still shaking with adrenaline but his voice was steady.

Alexander looked to Lafayette, remembering the conversation they'd had.

 _"Ils sont éveillé."_

 _Alex's eyes suddenly widened and he gripped Lafayette's bicep._

 _"Laf, please, don't tell George and Martha. Please, they'll kick me out. They'll be so mad, please Laf."_

 _He looked so frightened that Lafayette embraced him again._

 _"Mon ami, I will not tell them. Though if I did, they would not kick you out or be mad. However, I will keep the secret."_

Neither Alex or Lafayette said anything however and sat silently, making knowing eye contact.

George raised his eyebrows expectantly and Alex decided to tell the truth.

"I've been kicked out of two homes before because of... that. I didn't know how you'd react."

Martha glared at George for a moment, furious that he'd made Alex's fears partially come true.

She reached forward and gently took Alex's hand in hers.

"We're not going to make you leave because of this. We're not angry either, you can tell us this stuff without worrying how we'll react."

Alex nodded and smiled weakly, suddenly feeling exhausted.

"I- can I go to bed?"

George and Martha nodded and Alex stood up. Lafayette made to come with him but Martha sighed.

"Oh no, you are not getting off that easily."

Her son frowned and sat back down, folding his arms moodily.

Alex turned to leave the kitchen and walked up the stairs. He'd reached the upstairs landing when he realised George was behind him.

"I uh... I can't let you keep whatever you use Alexander."

Of course. Alex felt his stomach drop but he nodded numbly and walked into his room, retrieving the small metal tin. He handed it to George, his eyes on the ground, silent.

His foster father put the tin in his pocket and held his arms out, asking if he could hug Alex.

Alex nodded and they embraced for a few seconds.

"I'm sorry Alex. I shouldn't have allowed that argument to even start. It was childish of me."

Alex shrugged, "it's okay. Thanks for... well, everything really."

George nodded slightly and suddenly grinned. It was a welcome transformation from the anger he'd displayed just a few minutes ago.

"We'll work this out Alex, you're strong."

His voice was gruff again but it held a certain warmth and well, George-ness that was inexplicably comforting to Alexander.

"Thank you."

They stood there, in front of each other for a moment. The hallway was dark and quiet. Through the blinds filtered white light onto Alex's face in neat, geometric stripes.

George smiled once more and walked back downstairs, leaving Alex stood in the half light on the landing.

When George walked back into the kitchen Martha and Gilbert were sitting silently at the table across from each other, both looking quite angry but both for different reasons.

George decided to sit next to Martha, sensing Gilbert still wasn't best pleased with him.

"I'm disappointed in both of you."

Martha's voice was exasperated and angered.

"You should know better than to argue like that in front of Alex, that was the worst I've ever seen him. He all but fainted."

George closed his eyes and regret tore through him. He couldn't believe he'd been so stupid.

"Gilbert, why did you make those remarks about George's work?"

Lafayette looked up at George for a second and shrugged.

"C'est ne pas juste, mais, I didn't fully mean it. Cependant, I don't think it's fair I should have so much pressure on me. I'm the same age as Alex, it was hard to know what to do."

He was mixing his French and English together again but George felt it would be unwise to comment, considering the argument they'd just had.

"But why didn't you tell us Alex told you not to say anything?"

Lafayette sighed and rubbed his face, "I didn't want it to seem like I was blaming him. He was obviously panicking, aussi, he didn't ask me to start an argument. It was fair I left him out of it."

George felt his heart swell with pride at his son's empathy and selflessness. He smiled slightly and caught Martha's eye who also looked quite impressed.

When this mutual feeling of parental satisfaction died down however, Martha frowned at George, obviously still angry at him.

"Aside from that, George. What the hell were you thinking!"

He winced and felt remorse flood his insides. He pictured Alex's limp frame against Martha and heard his shaky breaths. He'd been so stupid...

"You know how that kind of thing affects him, I thought you'd be a bit more careful!"

George grimaced and nodded.

"I know, I know, I just couldn't stand the thought he'd been doing that for so long even when someone who cared about him knew. Obviously I see now it's not really Gilbert's fault at all."

He took the tin out of his pocket and placed it on the table.

"I asked him for what he used and he gave me this. I didn't think it was right to let him keep it."

Martha picked up the tin and rattled it, hearing thin metal clattering inside. She didn't dare open it.

"What do we do? Gil, do John or Hercules know?"

Lafayette shook his head, "I don't think they do."

Martha fiddled with a curl.

"Does he need therapy? Does he need medication?"

George thought for a second.

"I don't know but I'd say it's worth taking him to a physicist and- oh. Gilbert, I think its time you went to bed. This conversation should be between your mother and I."

He had thought Lafayette would protest, that he would kick up a fuss, noramlly he was intransigent and stubborn in these situations, but the boy's maturity surprised him. He nodded gravely and hugged Martha tightly before nodding to George and turning out of the room.

George all at once felt such nostalgia for the boy he'd raised for the last four years. He was a man now, a good, capable one at that.

They listened to his footsteps disappear down the hall and George put his head in his hands.

"I expect better from you in the future George."

She sounded like a disappointed teacher or parent, but he nodded again gravely.

"Its just... We couldn't do anything about Charles Lee and George Frederick, we can't do anything to whoever's abused Alex because he won't say a word about it, we couldn't help him when he was self harming here, in this house! The Senate campaign is stressing me out too. Lee is making things difficult, again. Last week he tried to spread a rumour that I wasn't a U.S. citizen or some bull like that. It's just racism, the same as Obama."

Martha sat next to him and gently rubbed his shoulder.

"We'll prove them wrong, you'll win and I'll get my position as an assistant district attorney."

They looked at each other for a long moment before Martha leant in to kiss him softly,

"I love you."

"I love you too."

"But you acted like a ten year old today."

George laughed and rubbed his head sheepishly.

"Shall I look for psychiatrists in the area?" He asked, his voice steady now.

"Yeah. Don't give them much detail before we know enough about them though, just find a good one."

"I will."

Martha was rinsing off their dinner plates at the and stacking their glasses up in the cupboard.

George moved to help her and she rested her head against his shoulder, closing her eyes. They stayed like that for a while, only the quiet and rhythmic beat of the tap dripping softly in the background.

 **Okay, some fluff kinda. But no one knows about Lee and George... oh no!**


	14. Chapter 14

**Hey guys! Thanks for reviewing. I've been really excited to write recently and I have all these ideas swarming in my head about this fanfiction, essays, books, politic and anything really. I actually caught myself pacing in the kitchen talking to myself about the representation of marginalized groups in Hamilton. Anyway, this chapter got kinda fluffy unintentionally. I don't know, angst is definitely coming, oh so definitely.**

 **Trigger warnings: mentions of bullying, mentions of self harm, mentions of tools used in self harming behaviours, self hatred.**

The next few weeks settled over Alex's life like a heavy mist and the warm weather they'd been enjoying in September evaporated with October's arrival.

He knew Martha and George were worried about him, he'd heard them discussing psychiatrists and medication in hushed tones after they thought he'd gone to bed. One night they'd seemed particularly frustrated that the waiting list for the only credible psychiatrist on this side of the state was a few months long.

The weight Alex had started to gain in his first three weeks at the Washingtons' had dropped off him, he looked just as sickly as he had when he arrived, if not paler and even skinnier.

Alex stood in front of his bedroom mirror now and pulled at his sweater in frustration. The material sagged awkwardly over his coat hanger shoulders and the sleeves drowned his arms, forcing him to resort to rolling the ends up a few times to be able to write.

It was a Saturday and Lafayette was going out to meet Herc and John. Alex didn't know where, he wasn't going.

His anxiety had always been bad, ever since he was a kid, but over the last few weeks it had gotten to the point where Alex felt physically sick at the idea of leaving the house. School every day was torture and more often than not he had to excuse himself from classes to have panic attacks in restrooms.

Lee and George didn't help matters. For whatever reason, they'd taken a disliking to Alex. He'd told no one about it, their threats of hurting Laf, John or Hercules hung over him like rain clouds and always silenced him when he opened his mouth to tell someone.

Every day he'd try to avoid them by waiting behind to talk to the teacher after class or walking in the middle of a crowd so they wouldn't see him, but most of the time, this was no use.

He'd become used to picking out clothes that hid the bruises battered into his body. Lee and George were careful. He hadn't suffered any broken bones or received any black eyes, to everyone else, he was physically unharmed.

That couldn't be further from the truth, but no one would care if he were to tell anyway.

When in came to many things in life, Alex was intransigent and uncompromising and this situation was no different. He never just took the punches. He was weaker than both of them, shorter and scrawnier too, but he had tough fists and sharp elbows, biting retorts and cutting diatribes. He'd be damned if he didn't at least give one of them a bloody nose or a bruised ego before he became their personal punching bag.

So that was the routine he had gotten used to. Slowly, contact with his friends had drifted. He longed for Lafayette's halting English and snarky humour. He still wanted John's lips on his everyday and he missed Hercules' calming, steady presence.

But he didn't deserve them. He knew they were happier without him. Besides, how could he keep up with any of them? They weren't broken, they could leave the house without choking and they didn't have panic attacks multiple times in one day. He'd only slow them down, annoy them, become a burden.

Anyway. It was Saturday. Alex hasn't gotten too much sleep that night. He'd tossed and turned till about two in the morning and woke up at about five, three hours later. He was exhausted.

Breakfast was being eaten downstairs and he knew he'd have to make an appearance soon. Martha and George were constantly fretting about him eating enough, sleeping enough, taking his medication and so on.

He sighed and scraped his hair up into a bun, it was darker now from lack of sun and could be mistaken for black in the right lighting.

He had some bruises around his throat from the day before when he'd taken it a bit too far insulting Charles and had played the price.

 _"Tell me, is there a reason why we can just get away with this? Like, it's not surprising no one seems to care but people must really hate you if they're ignoring this, huh."_

 _A quick kick was aimed at his stomach and his breath hitched slightly, catching in his throat. He rolled onto his side and spat some blood from his mouth. He didn't know how that had gotten there, he hadn't been struck in the face yet._

 _"Is there a reason you're such an asshole? No seriously. You must have some fucking inferiority complex if you have to resort to hitting people to feel better about yourself. Is your privileged, suburban white life getting you down? Need to take it out on the skinny Latin kid cos he's an easy target?"_

 _Lee snarled and brought his foot down on Alex's throat, pressing down hard until half his body weight was constricting the teenager at his feet._

Alex smiled slightly to himself at the memory. It hadn't exactly be been worth it to say that, but the look on Lee's face was unforgettable.

The hoodie did enough to adequately disguise the purple and yellow discoloration so he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and walked downstairs.

On the weekends, George and Martha made breakfast for them. It was usually something tastier and more filling than the cereal and coffee they had during the week. Today was fried eggs, bacon, toast and tomatoes.

Alex cringed when the smell of bacon met his nose and he ducked into the living room for a moment to ready himself.

In the living room he collapsed into the sofa and took a few deep breaths, trying not to think of the scar on his bicep and of how he'd gotten it. He nestled further into his hoodie and yawned, wishing he could go back to bed. Maybe after breakfast he could have a nap...

The sofa was so comfortable though, his hoodie was like a huge blanket, engulfing him with warmth. He could feel his eye lids drooping and his muscles relaxing...

There was a light tapping on his shoulder and his eyes snapped open. He jumped, on his feet in an instant, looking warily around him. Lafayette was stood over him wearing a bemused and pained expression.

"Sorry..." Alex's posture relaxed somewhat and Lafayette pulled him into a hug.

"Mon petit lion, I am worried for you. You are sure you do not want to come today?"

Alex screwed up his face against Lafayette's shoulder, holding back tears. Suddenly he felt so overcome with emotion. He wished he could just be normal for once, he wished he'd been given the same life his friends had. Why was it he who was born into a life of poverty and misery?

He collected himself and sighed.

"I'm sorry Laf. If you come back here after I'd love to hang."

He felt his foster brother nod and they broke apart, Alex following Lafayette to the kitchen.

He seated himself at the table and watched as everyone took their portions, as usual serving himself only after the rest of the table had started eating.

He ignored the bacon set out in front of him and began to eat a small portion of the other food available.

He knew he should be eating more, trying to snatch back the weight and health he'd been robbed of his whole life, but somehow, he couldn't.

He'd never really known a time in his life when he wasn't hungry. Even as a child in the Caribbean his mother had struggled to make ends meet after his father had left. Before that though, meals were his favourite part of the day. Alex could laugh and chat with his mother and brother at the table and eat his mother's vegetable callaloo or the papaya and beef stews. He loved the food his mother made, but it was more to do with the fact that it was the only hour of the day when he got to see his mother, she was almost always at work.

The smell of his mother frying rice with the coconut milk and peppers he'd bought for her still lingered in his memory like the ghost of an entirely different existence. When his father walked out on them, meals became smaller and further apart. Deliciously spiced fried vegetables became tinned soup, became bruised apples, became empty stomachs.

He remembered how his mother's death and the hurricane had followed in quick succession to each other. That was still something he never thought about and truthfully, he didn't want to. He just couldn't stand the memories and how they flooded him whenever he had a cold, like his mother's fever or when there was a storm, like the hurricane.

But he was digressing now.

Pace had kept the cupboard well stocked with food, not healthy food at that, but food none the less. It became evident soon this was not for Alex however. If Pace or his son were feeling too lazy to beat him, they'd just lock the kitchen for a few days, the hunger pangs often hurt more than a bruised cheekbone or a sprained ankle.

He looked down at his plate to see he'd actually finished everything, aside from the bacon. He drained his glass of water and set his knife and fork down on top the plate.

"Don't like bacon?"

He glanced up to see George watching him, the hint of a smile on his face.

Alex shrugged slightly, "not really... I'm sorry, I should have mentioned it."

George shook his head and chuckled slightly. "It's no trouble Alex, you won't have to have it from now on."

Alex smiled gratefully at George and fiddled with a hangnail, pulling so hard he drew blood.

After breakfast Alex helped to wash up before climbing wearily back upstairs and collapsing onto his bed.

Lafayette came up a few minutes later, changed into a coat and fashionable jeans. Alex supposed he was about to go and meet John and Hercules.

"Are you sure you don't want to come?"

Alex sighed. He thought of John and his fervent passion when he talked about things he loved, Hercules and his witty humour and calming presence.

"You know how I get Laf. Are you going to come back here afterwards?"

His foster brother's face twitched into a sympathetic smile and sat next to Alex on his bed.

"I'll make sure we do. We can watch a film or something."

Alex nodded eagerly and felt his the tightness in his chest lessen. He would get to see John and and Hercules without having to suffer through the inevitable panic attacks he experienced when he left the house.

Lafayette hugged him tightly for few seconds then stood up and walked towards the door.

"Prends soin de toi Alexandre."

 _Take care of yourself Alexander._

Alex grinned and nodded before watching his brother walk out onto the landing and down the stairs.

It was going to be a few hours at least until Lafayette came back and Alex didn't really know what to do.

Ever since George had taken away his razor he'd had nothing to do to relieve tension or emotions, he knew if he wanted to he could use a kitchen knife or some glass, heck, he could steal an exact-o blade from school, but something always stopped him. He knew Martha and George were watching him closely. He was actually surprised they hadn't put a lock on the cutlery drawer by now. He couldn't bear to picture their faces if they found out he didn't even have the self control to stop.

So Alex had started writing even more, at a furious and unstoppable pace. Every night after school he'd pull out his notebook and pour out pages and pages of whatever he could think of. Essays about politics, books he'd read, journal entries, scathing critiques of anything or anyone who'd wronged him. It didn't matter, so long as he could lose himself in his work for hours on end.

Most nights he would start writing as soon as he came home from school and wouldn't stop until the first hints of a dawn nudged their way through the crack in his curtains.

Truly, he had to work hard to convince himself that this was a better coping mechanism than his last one. It wasn't much healthier, he forwent food and sleep too often, not to mention the social isolation he forced upon himself. But then, at least he had something to show for it. A month ago he had scars, now he had tens of thousands of words written eloquently and succinctly, he was truly proud of his work.

So that was how John found him hours later when he returned with Lafayette and Hercules. Alex's hand cramped around a pen and eyes strained on the latest clause in a sentence.

Alexander didn't even notice the door opening, so John took the opportunity to admire his friend for a minute or so, leaning casually against the door jambe.

His brown eyes were absorbed in his work and his brows were furrowed, deep in concentration. His hair fell in strands around his small face, freshly washed and soft looking. Papers littered the bed around him like a sea, and he the island. Every so often he would sit the pen down to flex his long fingers and rotate his wrists. His hands were spotted dark blue and black with ink and his middle finger had a harsh red writing bump where his pen had been rubbing furiously at the skin there.

"Why do you write like you're running out of time, Alexander?" John's slight New York drawl came out careless and amused, he let a grin spread across his face.

The boy jumped and dropped the pen, cursing when a blob of ink stained his duvet cover.

"John." He breathed, his eyes wide with surprise and joy.

John took a few steps into the room, closing the door behind him. He smiled slyly to his friend, moving closer to the boy.

Alexander narrowed his eyes in amused suspicion and picked up his papers carefully, bringing them to his already overflowing desk and stacking them in neat piles.

He moved closer to John and wrapped his arms around the taller boy's shoulders.

"I missed you..." he murmured, head buried into John's chest.

"So did I, you work yourself too hard Alexander."

He felt the smaller boy laugh softly, the noise muffled as his face was still hidden in his friend's tee shirt, John was sure he would be able to feel his heart beat.

He tilted Alex's head up to look at him, two fingers gently resting under his chin.

They leaned in in unison, the gap between them closing rapidly as they shut their eyes at the same time, their lips meeting desperately.

Unlike their first kiss there was more longing and passion between them now, as though Alex could drink lost time back from John's mouth. The shorter boy gasped slightly and pushed himself closer to John as his hand found it's way to his friend's curls.

Alex gently bit down on John's lower lip and leaned further into the kiss, sighing slightly and tasting the minty flavour of his mouth. John grinned and their teeth clashed briefly before he grazed his tongue along Alex's bottom lip and let their mouths interlock further. Alexander's brain was going haywire, he could feel the electricity running up and down his arms, through his lips, down his back. John's arms were around his waist and Alex's hands were at his chest.

The only sound in the room now was their shallow breathing and the whispering of fabric as Alex ran his hands lightly up John's chest.

They broke apart momentarily and drank the sight of each other in, Alex's deep, intelligent eyes meeting John's gold-flecked amber ones.

Alex mouthed lightly along John's jaw, ghosting his lips across the skin with playful kisses.

"Laurens..."

"Alexander..."

Alex opened his mouth slightly and was gently grazing his lips over John's while the latter ran his tongue over Alexander's. Alex sighed again and pressed in harder, letting out a sigh louder than he would have liked. He wondered where Lafayette and Hercules were...

John smiled into the kiss at this and pushed his tongue further into Alex's mouth, laughing internally when he felt Alex's hand on his chest clench into the cotton of his tee shirt.

Suddenly the bedroom door was burst open and Lafayette and Hercules bounced in, standing stock still when their eyes met the scene in front of of them.

The two boys froze mid kiss and pulled apart, they turned slowly to face their friends. Embarrassment and anger was working its way onto both of their faces. Both boys' lips were parted slightly, swollen and pink from kissing and their hair was incriminatingly ruffled. They were clearly out of breath and John's chest was rising and falling rhythmically.

"Christ..." Hercules whispered, his eyes wide with shock. Lafayette was silent, his hand at his mouth and his eyes huge. He scanned over the two boys and suddenly, he had doubled over with laughter and was clutching his ribs frantically.

"Mon Dieu! Je le savais! I knew it!"

 _My God! I knew it! I knew it!_

Alex stepped back from John slightly and smoothed his hair down, a bright red staining his cheeks. He scowled at Lafayette and folded his arms in frustration.

"Ever heard of knocking Laf?"

Hercules was grinning now too, his surprised expression taken over by a broad smile and crinkled, humoured eyes.

John had retied his pony tail and was blushing that same burt sienna shade Alex had admired so much on him.

"Sorry about that..." Lafayette choked out, clapping his brother on the back, catching a sharp piece of shoulder blade.

John had found his smile now too and sighed theatrically. "Seriously guys, you had to interrupt that? Things were just getting interesting!"

Alex cringed and buried his face in his hands, mortified. He thought of the little sighs he'd been making and how he'd been lightly tracing John's chest. God, they'd seen all that...

Lafayette hugged him gently.

"Mon frère, do not be embarrassed! Well, be a little embarrassed, that was quite embarrassing, but it is okay!"

Alex chuckled slightly at Lafayette's unintentional word play and grinned over his brother's shoulder to John.

Hercules put his arm tightly around John's shoulder.

"Well, it was pretty obvious you were into each other anyway."

Alex fiddled with the hem of his sweater and shrugged, "Lafayette said the same thing a few weeks ago."

"Ah, bien sûr! Don't think I didn't see the secret hand holding and cuddling when John slept over!"

John gasped playfully and punched Lafayette affectionately on the shoulder.

"Can we pretend you didn't see what you just did?" Alex asked, biting his lip, embarrassed.

John was struggling out of Hercules' arm as the taller boy ruffled his hair, his head held in Herc's bison like grip.

"Not a chance, that was hilarious!"

Hercules had released John and dug his hands into his pockets nonchalantly.

Lafayette nodded, "the look on your faces, jésus!"

Alex rolled his eyes and turned towards the bathroom, splashing water in his face and retying his ponytail. He was still out of breath and his heart was beating ten times a second.

He smiled to himself and thought of how happy John had been to see him. He thought of how John had held his waist, how he'd said his full name. Alexander.

He turned back out of the bathroom and grinned to his friends.

"Where'd you guys go?"

Lafayette grinned, "got coffee and went to the park to hang."

Alex felt a small knife of jealousy stab at his a heart but he shook it away and nodded.

"You should come with us next time," smiled Herc, wrapping his arm across Alex's shoulders.

"There aren't too many people."

Alex shrugged, pretending he was considering it. He didn't think they fully understood, it was about people yeah, but more so that when he was in public he couldn't escape if he had a panic attack, he could get hurt more easily, he could get lost, he could get robbed or cornered or...

He shook away those thoughts and inwardly chastised himself. He knew logically he was being stupid and melodramatic but he had a habit of letting his imagination run away with him.

But then again, he didn't think he deserved to be seen in public with those three. Three smart, tall, good looking, charismatic teenagers and him. The five foot five, scrawny, wild-eyed mess. He wasn't good enough to be their friend.

Hercules took his silence for a 'no' and sighed before hugging him tightly. Alex willed himself to remain calm and breathe normally.

 _It's just a hug, it's just a hug, it's just a hug..._

It was just that Hercules was so much bigger than his other friends. Every inch of him was muscle, he was tall and broad, he played soccer, worked out, swam. The dissonance between his appearance and personality however was laughable, as in reality, Alex could never, ever picture him hurting anybody. He had kind eyes and a face that looked like it smiled often. That's what he told himself when he was wrapped in the embrace. He took steadying breaths and reciprocated the hug, clapping his friend weakly on the back.

Lafayette must have noticed his panic stricken expression and clapped his hands, prompting the grapple-

 _No, hug._

to end. John was looking at Alex with sympathetic eyes and all at once, Alex felt guilt flood him. Hercules would never hurt him, that was one of the few things he could be sure of. To think anything else would be an insult. He felt disgusted with himself, traitorous. He didn't deserve these friends.

He coughed awkwardly bad broke his eye contact with John, moving towards the stairs.

"Let's forget that awkward introduction, I wanna watch a film."

He tuned his voice back to the carefully practiced casual air he'd perfected. It felt shallow and underhand but it was convincing, he saw his two friends visibly relax and Hercules was none the wiser.

John walked down the stairs in front of him and they jumped into the living room, flopping down on the sofa in a tangled heap.

Lafayette yelled when Alex landed on top of him, pointed elbows and jutting hipbones digging into his arm. Alex blushed and struggled away.

 _You're so goddamn heavy, you're crushing him._

Alex shuddered slightly and quickly rolled off his friend, sliding into the empty expanse of sofa.

"Mon petit lion! Ton os a coupé mon bra!" Joked Lafayette

 _My little lion! Your bone cut my arm!_

Alex blushed and brushed the comment off, making awkward eye contact with John.

"What's that nickname you call him? Petit lion?" Hercules grinned.

Alexander blushed and tugged at a strand of his hair awkwardly.

"Mais bien sûr! He's small and fiery, like a little lion!"

"I didn't put a stop to it instantly, so it's stuck!" Alex sighed, shaking his head in a long-suffering fashion.

John grinned and shuffled to sit closer to Alexander.

"Je l'aime, shall I call you that from now on?"

Alex groaned and shook his head, stands of dark hair flying rapidly around his head like things alive.

"Laurens, I could not bear it!" He cried dramatically and flung himself over John, grinning up at the boy. Lafayette laughed and playfully pushed Alex.

"Stop flirting with each other!"

Alex sighed and flopped across John's lap.

"Laf, you're no fun. Pisse-froid!" John laughed, shaking his head.

 _Killjoy_

Lafayette made a noise of offence and rolled his eyes at John and Alex's position.

He flicked on the TV and relaxed into the sofa, leaning against Hercules' shoulder happily.

They watched TV for an hour or so when unbeknownst to them, George pulled into the drive way and walked into the house. He stood in the open doorway of the living room and watched the four boys for a few moments.

Alex was curled up happily across John's lap, his head was leant into the taller boy's chest, his spine pressed into John's stomach and his legs stretched out across the sofa. John has his hand tangled up in his hair. Lafayette was nestled comfortably between Hercules and the arm of the sofa, face pressed into his taller friend's shoulder.

He smiled to himself for a moment, vaguely wondering what the situation between John and Alex was. It could be platonic, friendly affection but something told him the blush on his foster son's face didn't quite mirror that.

He cleared his throat and the four boys jumped and turned to face him. Alex hastily clambered off of John's lap and sat neatly on the sofa next to him, mortified and blushing. Lafayette had taken his head of Hercules' shoulder but not moved away from his warmth. Hercules looked slightly flustered and embarrassed by this but didn't move away.

George grinned at them, hoping to show John and Hercules they had no reason to feel uncomfortable.

"Have a good day?"

Lafayette smirked and sat up, nodding vigorously. He shot a knowing, sly look at John and Alex whose eyes widened and shared a worried glance.

"Ils faisaient! c'était assez drôle mais, maintenant ils sont embarrassé."

 _They did! It was really funny, but now they're embarrassed."_

George shook his head dispairingly and changed the subject, his curiosity peaked but his gut telling him not to ask.

"I'll take that as a yes then... What are you watching?"

Hercules grinned and took the opportunity to steer the subject away from John and Alex's love life.

"Sitcoms, on Netflix. This one has about twelve seasons so it will take us at least two days to get through."

George laughed at Hercules' easy humour and turned to hang up his coat in the hall.

From inside the living room he heard angry muttering and faint whispers. He wondered what they were saying, his hearing not sharp enough to pick out succinct words. Deciding to leave them some privacy he smiled to himself and walked upstairs to put away his bag.

"Jesus Laf! What are you playing at?" John was red in the face from combination of anger and mortification.

"Relax, that man barely understands 'oui' from 'non'." Lafayette smirked, tapping a rhythm onto Hercules' shoulder.

Alex scowled and folded his arms.

"He didn't have to understand, your tone said everything!"

Lafayette smirked again, "I think it was more the fact you were sitting on John's lap Alexandre."

Alex groaned and buried his face in his hands. John smiled slightly and patted his back. As usual, Hercules stepped in to ease the tensions.

"It doesn't matter you guys, he probably didn't think anything of it, and if he did, well George doesn't give a shit."

John shrugged, "my dad does."

Alex turned to him surprised, he'd never heard John talk about his dad before.

Lafayette visibly softened and smiled, "He's not here right now. Plus, George is different."

John nodded, "I know. I know, my dad is just a bit old fashioned. That's all."

Alex pulled John closer to him and they stayed like that for the rest of the episode, hands intertwined, cheeks so close they could feel the air move when one of them spoke.

They remained in that position until it grew dark outside. Lafayette was curled up against Hercules once more and the latter had taken to playing with the ends of his hair affectionately, grinning when he noticed his friend had fallen asleep, dark eyes now closed and chest rising and falling peacefully.

Martha came home around forty five minutes after George did and chatted animatedly with the boys for a while, smiling fondly at the way the two pairs had curled up into each other and wondering whether the relationships could be accurately described as merely platonic.

Alex briefly fell asleep on John's chest around twenty minutes after Martha had come home, his cheekbone digging ever so slightly uncomfortably onto John. It didn't matter however, because John was free to stare and take in the teenager's face for long moments, memorizing his eyelashes and the shape of his nose. He had been planning to sketch Alexander for weeks now.

Soon however, dinner was being prepared and Hercules and John were asked to decide to stay to eat with the family or go home. John knew his dad would be kinda mad if he came home late and overstayed his welcome at the Washingtons', besides, it was getting dark and he didn't fancy walking home alone in the pitch black of rural Virginian night time.

He shared a similar look with Hercules and the two of them mutually decided through a glance alone that they'd go home now.

Alex chatted to John in the hallway as he slid on his shoes and shrugged his leather jacket over his shoulders.

Hercules and Lafayette were upstairs swapping CDs and books before they parted, so John and Alex were alone once again in the dark porch.

John leaned in and kissed Alex again, sweetly and gently this time. His lips were chapped slightly and his skinny fingers brushed through Alex's hair softly for a few seconds before they parted.

"See a movie with me." John smirked. He looked all too attractive in the dim golden light. His hair was wild, untamed and he wore his leather jacket like a second skin, the material worn and creased from the many years he'd had it. He looked dangerous and so very mischievous in that moment. His eyes full of life, rebellious like an unbroken stallion.

Alex was taken aback slightly at his bluntness.

"Uh, sure. When?"

John grinned, "Monday night. Local cinema is showing the shining. Should be good."

Alex raised his eyebrows.

"You had this all planned out didn't you."

John laughed, tucking some hair behind Alex's ear and stepping out onto the street.

Alex smiled again. "You like horror then?"

John only smirked.

"Not particularly, but it seemed like a good idea to get you clinging to me in the cinema. Maybe you can lean on my chest."

Alex laughed and rolled his eyes.

"In your dreams."

John took a few casual steps backwards down the driveway, his collar turned up and an amused grin on his face.

"Whatever you say, baby girl."

Alex blushed redder than he ever had in his life had groaned.

"Man, maybe petit lion isn't so bad!"

John only buried his hands in his pockets and laughed.

"Night baby girl."

"Night John."

 **Inspired by the vine where Anthony calls Lin baby girl.**


	15. Chapter 15

**Hello, thanks for so many reviews! I hope you guys are enjoying this, because I have no plans on stopping any time soon.**

 **Kinzey (thatwritermadeofpotatoes) my beta reader has put in her notice! It's been great Kinz, she still helps me though when I'm having a dilemma about putting something in. You can thank her for persuading me to keep Lafayette's funny innuendos! Seriously though, great beta reader, great writer. You should check her out! Well, because if this, forgive any typos or spelling mistakes. It's exhausting to edit a 9,000 word document...**

 **LamsPickles: the hilarious thing is, I wrote the chapter before seeing your review, so when I did see it, I was like, hmmmm. This is fortunate!**

 **ShipperInParadise: Okay! (:**

 **TheSilvernote: *gulps and tugs nervously at collar* I uh... I'm not giving them an easy time at the moment... P.S I think the vine is on YouTube, it's pretty amazing.**

 **PJOandHP4life: I'm glad you like it!**

 **EffinVictory: 3 thanks for reviewing all the time by the way!**

 **ANDPEGGYOnBreakSince1801: sorry, fluff is over now... mostly.**

 **Hamiltrash55: You don't ever need to wait for me to update because I'm constantly writing, there's always a new chapter to read lol.**

 **Trigger warnings: Bullying, homophobic parent.**

 **This chapter isn't so angsty, but ooooooh, look out for chapter 16. Jesus, I made myself cry.**

The hours slowly trickled by until Sunday dawned into Monday morning. John woke up nervous. He poured out his cereal as usual and moved the empty cans of beer out of the living room. He did this everyday, it was safe, routine, corporeal. This comforted him, it was nice to start the day out normally.

His dad was probably still in bed and wouldn't stir until nine or ten, working from home had its advantages, apparently drinking late and getting up even later was one of them.

He chose his outfit carefully. His armoire was a sea of blacks and dark blues, pretty much the only colours he wore. Usually he would throw something on, only regarding cleanliness and harmony of the colours, but today he had a date.

He and Alex were going to the cinema after school, the showing started at five thirty so they figured they'd get something to eat beforehand, maybe hang in the mall until they could go into the auditorium.

John eventually decided on a navy button down, some black jeans and his usual leather jacket. He thought it looked good; like he hadn't put too much thought into it.

He grumbled nad took a deep breath before sticking his head into his dad's room before he left, just to let him know he'd be going out after school.

To his surprise, the man was dressed in jeans and a polo shirt. The bags under his eyes were more noticeable than usual and his eyes were slightly red rimmed, but he didn't look _too_ bad.

"Morning dad. I'm going out after school tonight, yeah?"

His dad looked around to him, his brows furrowed. Henry Laurens was a man of contrasts. Full, dark eyebrows but pale lashes, dark skin yet light eyes, not at all like John's. A slightly less than average stature but a formidable temper.

"Where?"

"The cinema." John fiddled with the zip on his jacket.

"When will you be back?"

"Eight-ish. Maybe earlier, not later."

John squeezed his fist hard, awaiting the dreaded question.

"Who with?"

He tried to make his voice casual, as though going out with this boy was the most normal, platonic thing in the world.

"Alexander, I think you know him."

His father raised an eyebrow, he'd walked to his dresser and was arranging the books there.

"The Washingtons' boy?"

John nodded, not daring to take his eyes of his father's collar. It was blue, there was a tiny emblem on the corner. John realised it was a pin. An elephant. The one he'd gotten from the Virginian republican convention. It had been last June, over a year ago. When John had refused to go he and his father hadn't talked for at least two weeks.

"Anyone else?"

John shook his head, his hands in his pockets, pressing hard into the leather.

"He doesn't have a girlfriend?"

John's breath hitched in his throat and he shook his head.

"Uh, no."

His father sighed and turned around to face him properly.

"I hoped you'd be bringing _girls_ to the cinema by now. You're nearly sixteen John."

John swallowed and shrugged. He didn't talk with his dad about his sexuality. It had always been assumed that John was straight. When his dad had first gotten a whiff of the opposite, he'd seemed more withdrawn from his son. Disappointed, dissatisfied.

"I... I don't know. Maybe someday?"

He knew damn well this was a lie, but right now he didn't care. His father sighed again and shook his head.

"Why can't you just be normal for once? Take a girl out, your brother does all the time!"

"Are you asking me to sleep around?"

The moodiness in his tone shocked John himself but he kept eye contact with his dad, not daring to look away.

His father growled slightly and stepped towards John, who didn't back down. His father had never hit him, he probably wouldn't now, John wasn't scared of him.

"You will not take that tone with me young man."

His voice was dangerously low and his eyes narrowed with anger.

"Sorry. Jesus."

If anything, his father looked even angrier, he crossed himself and glared at his son.

"You will not take the Lord's name in vain, John!"

John sighed and walked back out of the room, pulling his leather jacket tighter around his shoulders.

"Come back and apologise this instant, John!"

He sighed and continued on, grabbing his bag from his room.

When he stepped out onto the landing, his father was there waiting for him.

"You're not going tonight, I won't have you associating with the son of that man. You know well my opinions on his politics."

John rolled his eyes and made his way down the stairs.

His father was yelling after him, John could sense the trembling of his hands by his voice.

"If you go tonight, I will make sure you do not talk to that boy again, I'll ground you. Is that clear? John!"

John didn't turn around. He reached the door of the house and paused, turning back to his father with livid eyes.

"I'm going, and guess what! It's a date!" He hissed, ignoring his father's yells behind him as he walked out of the house, down the drive.

The home behind him was unnecessarily large and extravagant looking, the drive was way too long. He listened to his father's angry shouts get fainter and fainter until he was half way down the street, his teeth gritted tightly and his walk fast and determined.

Alex examined the shirt he was holding and sighed. It was too much. He had to go to school first and he wasn't about to go to the cinema looking like he'd mistaken it for the Met Gala.

"Laf! Tu peux me donner un coup de main?"

 _Laf! Can you give me a hand?_

He heard his foster brother's footsteps in the hallway and turned to the door, smiling sheepishly.

"M'aidais, I don't know what to wear."

Lafayette grinned and clasped his hands as if in prayer, looking towards the ceiling.

"Merci! Mon Dieu, I've been waiting for this day for so long!"

Alex rolled his eyes and opened his drawer, showing Lafayette the clothes he had.

Lafayette looked through them quickly, examining clothes carefully and glancing at Alex when he conesidered items.

He quickly picked out a striped button down, grey and off-white with a pair of acid wash black jeans.

He suddenly looked up very mischievously at Alex and smirked slyly.

"Est un choix stratégique de caleçons necessaire, oui ou non?"

 _Is a strategic choice of boxers necessary, yes or no?_

Alex dropped the empty mug of coffee he was holding and blushed furiously. He bent down to pick up the mug, which mercifully hadn't smashed, and whacked Lafayette around the head.

"Merde! Bien sûr que non!" He protested, ears flaming.

 _Shit! Of course not!_

Alex snatched the clothes off Lafayette who was doubled over in laughter.

"Je sais! Je sais! Je rigole- OW!"

 _I know! I know! I was kidding-OW!_

Alex had stamped hard on his foot and was glaring at him with no remorse.

"Nous avons quinze ans!"

 _We're fifteen!_

Lafayette suddenly looked apologetic, though a glint of humour remained in his eyes.

"I'm sorry, it was only a joke, I didn't mean anything by it."

Alex softened and rolled his eyes.

"Thanks for the help, this looks good. You should just be glad I know you well enough to understand you were kidding."

Lafayette laughed and stood up, wincing when he put his weight on his foot.

Alex looked nervous and watched his foot anxiously, "I didn't hurt you too bad did I?"

Lafayette shook his head and wiggled his foot slightly. He smiled one last time at his foster brother and walked out of the room

Alex was left alone to change. Upon trying the outfit on, he had to grudgingly admit that it looked good.

It was the last class of the day, fifth period, and Alex was looking at the clock anxiously. Twenty minutes to go...

It was an English lesson, so it wasn't too torturous, nevertheless he couldn't help eagerly awaiting the end of the day when he could finally go to the cinema with John.

Eventually the bell rang and Alex hastily stood up, grabbing his things and sliding them into his bag with one sweep of his arm. Mrs Monroe was wiping down the board and yelling over the din to remind everyone they had work due in the next lesson.

Alex was halfway down the corridor when he stumbled and fell, pushed by a strong hand into the nearby men's bathrooms.

He cursed under his breath and hissed in pain when his knee collided with hard ceramic tile.

He stood up quickly and scowled at Charles and George, who were standing by the door smirking.

"Seriously, I have a- thing to get to..."

He stopped himself at the last minute, sharply cutting of his words and trailing off. He had been about to say he had a date, but considering the extensive homophobia Lee harboured, he thought it was wise to say nothing.

"Do you have to do this now? Didn't get enough pocket money or something? I really don't care."

Lee laughed cruelly, it bit into Alex's bones and froze him from the inside.

"You have a what?"

Alex rolled his eyes.

"What do you care?"

Lee shook his head condescendingly, as though he was disappointed in Alex. He was on him in a second, knee colliding with stomach and hand pulling at his hair sharply.

Alex yelled in shock more than anything else, used to this kind of treatment from an extensive group of people.

"What is it you're hiding? Come on, you can tell us." Lee's voice was falsely friendly and saccharine but tinted with malice. He shot a quick grin at George, who had an unnerving smile on his face.

Alex hissed in pain as the grip in his hair tightened and he shook his head.

George walked closer to the pair and smirked at Alex, suddenly grabbing his arms and pinning them behind Alexander's back.

He struggled and lashed out, his leg connecting hard with Lee's shin. The black haired boy growled in pain and punched Alex hard in the stomach, leaving him too winded to defend himself from the blows that followed.

George let one of Alex's hands hang loose to his side and seized a fist full of his hair, yanking it back harshly until Alex was forced to watch see the ceiling above him.

"Every time it comes to this, when you hold and he punches, it just serves to remind me how pathetic you are." Alex growled.

Alexander had pretty much discarded his verbal filter long ago when it came to Lee and George. He figured they would beat him up anyway, regardless of whether he mercilessly insulted him or not. At least he could practice some good comebacks.

George's fingernails were digging painfully into his scalp now, Alex did his best to wrestle free but he only succeeded in getting his unrestrained wrist twisted painfully back on itself and a fresh barrage of punches thrown into his stomach and chest.

Luckily, they both seemed to have forgotten about what Alex had been about to say and got bored of beating him up relatively quickly.

They left the bathroom a few minutes later, leaving Alex crumpled on the floor, panting and searching for his bag. Finally he found it slid under one of the cubicles. He pulled the brown corduroy jacket Lafayette had lent him back on and scrambled out of the bathroom, doing his best to ignore the throbbing pain in his stomach.

He'd arranged to meet John at the school gates at twenty to four. Cursing again under his breath he looked at the battered watch on his wrist. It was five to four, John had been waiting for fifteen minutes.

Alex raced through the corridors of the school, frantically trying think up excuses for his lateness as he opened the double doors to the school back entrance.

From a distance he could see John sat on the wall swinging his leg absently, back pack shrugged off onto the concrete.

He felt guilt stab at his stomach, even though he knew it wasn't his fault and sprinted over, making a conscious effort not to limp.

John looked up at him and grinned. He stood up and hoisted his bag back onto one shoulder, tapping his left foot expectantly.

Alex stopped in front of him and caught his breath, eyes scanning over John's appearance. He looked extremely good. In fact, good was not a strong enough descriptor. Incredible or even dangerous might be a better way to describe it.

John raised an eyebrow and Alex who sighed, an apologetic expression on his face.

"Miss Monroe kept me back to talk about an essay I'd written, just to clarify what I'd meant in a certain phrase."

John shrugged, "Its cool. It's not like we're gonna be late to the film, we have have like an hour and a half."

Internally though, John was confused. He knew Alexander, he knew his prodigy-like writing skills. How succinct and clear he was in everything he did. Surely his essays would leave no doubt in the reader's mind as to what they'd meant?

He thought about this for a while, a nagging feeling of malaise in the back of his mind. This was extinguished however when he felt Alexander's hand slip into his.

"Where do you wanna go before the film?" Alex asked, letting their joint hands swing casually.

"Wherever you want, baby girl." Smirked John, pressing the button on the crossing.

Alex groaned. "Please don't tell me that's stuck!"

John shrugged his shoulders, a small smile creeping onto his face.

"How about we get some coffee?"

Alex nodded vigorously, "yeah we should, where's the nearest place?"

John shrugged and rubbed his head thoughtfully.

"There's a coffee house a block away from the cinema, it's like a two minute walk."

Alex smiled, "well come on! I've been caffeine deprived for too long!"

The coffee shop was crowded and smokey, Alex had never been to Europe, but this was how he imagined cafés where artists had lunch in famous cities like Paris or Venice.

When he stepped across the threshold however and took in all the people crowded into the tiny premises, he felt his hands start to tremble slightly and his breathing quicken.

"John?"

John looked around sharply at the panic in Alex's voice, making him flinch away.

"I'm going to wait upstairs okay... it's too crowded down here."

John clasped his shoulder sympathetically and nodded.

"Americano with half a teaspoon of sugar, right?"

Alex grinned, "D'accord."

Alex passed a five a dollar note to John and smiled shakily, wincing slightly when a customer brushed up against him.

He walked upstairs, relieved to find it far less crowded than below and took a booth seat right in the corner, away from everyone else in the café

John ordered quickly, both their drinks being simple, one Americano with half a teaspoon of sugar and one cappuccino.

The barista was a haggard, worn out looking college boy who John pitied greatly. The person behind John had ordered an iced chai latte, decaff and made on soy milk with cinnamon, one flavour shot of vanilla and whipped cream. The poor barista looked almost ready to cry at that point. John thought that if you wanted some sort of sickly sweet milkshake, a coffee shop wasn't the pace to get it.

He headed upstairs, finding Alex in the corner of a booth, eyes closed and taking deep breaths.

"Alex, you okay?" He asked, tone slightly nervous.

Alex nodded and opened his eyes, it relieved John to see that his expression was far less tense than it had been downstairs.

John had taken his school bag off his shoulders and was rummaging through it, eventually pulling out a small sketchbook and a tin of graphite pencils.

Alex put down his coffee curiously and leaned in.

"I've never seen your art work before."

He looked up at John who was smiling faintly, their cheeks were nearly touching in the close proximity and Alex could see John's eyes in detail properly, all the tiny flecks of gold and streaks of coffee were visible.

"I was gonna sketch you, if that's okay."

Alex choked on the gulp of coffee in his mouth and coughed rather loudly, looking incredulously at John.

"What do you wanna sketch me for?"

John rolled his eyes and opened the sketchbook at the latest page. Alex gasped slightly when he saw the basic sketch of his own face had already been completed. That was his jaw line there, and he could see the shape his ponytail took. Recognisable to him in the way only a person's face was to themself. The face however, hadn't been filled in.

"I tried to pick an ambiguous pose you could recreate." John said, his voice was tinged with something akin to embarrassment, but Alex smiled.

"But I can't draw you in return!" He cried, folding his arms. John laughed and shrugged.

"Use those fancy words of yours. I'm sure you can think something up."

Alex rolled his eyes and sat back in his chair, keeping eye contact with John as the latter pulled out a pencil and began to sketch.

They talked as he drew, Alex could move his mouth, it wouldn't inhibit John from drawing, as long as he didn't change the position of his head or expression too much.

"You really think Trump's gonna be impeached?" Alex asked, frustrated he couldn't see the sketchbook from this angle.

"I don't know. It's a possibility, but I don't know if I want that to happen."

Alex sighed and nodded, "because of-"

"Mike Pence." They said together, both in a near identical weary tone.

"You know what he did to queer kids, I think he may actually be worse than Trump."

John nodded his head, moving his pencil in long, sweeping strokes that suggested he was sketching hair.

"He's definitely at least as bad."

Alex rubbed his eyes, yawning and John grinned.

"Tired?"

Alex shrugged.

"Waiting for the coffee to kick in."

John put down his pencil and frowned at Alex.

"You're always so tired. Why is that?"

Alex coughed and looked into his coffee. He shrugged.

"I'm iron deficient and sometimes I can't sleep."

John looked concerned.

"If you ever can't sleep, just call me. You don't have to talk, just say 'Alex'. Then I can come see you, or we can meet up."

Alexander raised an eyebrow.

"Really? Because three in the morning seems like a great time to hang out."

John shrugged.

"I go on runs at night anyway. What's the difference if I stop at yours?"

Alex considered this for a moment before sighing.

"You'd better be prepared to be up about five nights a week."

John winced, "you stay up late that often?"

Alexander grinned.

"You've said you would John, no backing out now."

John smiled and picked up his pencil again, he was moving it in little dotting motions, maybe he was drawing freckles.

A few minutes later, he scribbled a signature in the corner of the piece and added the rubric, 'Alexander Hamilton.'

He picked it up and turned it to Alex.

It was him alright. In fact, the likeness was incredible. John's pencil had perfectly captured the way his eyes crinkled slightly when amused, and the defined bridge of his nose. He wondered if the drawing was how he really looked, or how John saw him and for the first time he noticed he actually had some freckles on his cheekbones. Funny that it had taken him a drawing of himself to realise.

"Woah, John... It's incredible."

John smiled and nodded in thanks.

"Do I really look like that?"

Alexander suddenly had a slightly insecure expression on his face, as though sure that this Dorian Gray couldn't possibly be him.

John leaned in and kissed him quickly on the lips, only for a moment. It was probably best, Alex was sure his mouth tasted of strong coffee, which wasn't exactly attractive.

"Even more beautiful. Because a drawing can't fully capture someone's brain."

Alex felt himself go pink and he looked at the drawing again for a long moment.

John closed his sketchbook and they finished their coffee in comfortable silence, Alex didn't know silence could be comfortable but with John he felt no insecurity that he was being watched, examined, judged.

They stacked their empty cups onto the tray and left them there, next to a two dollar tip Alex had insisted they leave.

"These people don't even get minimum wage, the least I can do is thank them for the coffee."

John nodded at that, "fair enough."

They walked hand in hand to the cinema, Alex's stomach twisting slightly at the thought of all the people there. He gripped John's hand slightly tighter and leant into him further.

"Are you okay?"

Alexander nodded, smiling up at John reassuringly.

"Of course, I have you with me."

John grinned and all of a sudden, Alex felt John's phone vibrate in his pocket. Their hips were so close together.

John rolled his eyes and opened his phone. It was an incoming call from 'dad'.

John's face darkened but he pressed the green answer button anyway and held his hand out in apology to Alex.

"Hey dad."

Alex could hear muffled voices on the other end, but wasn't able to make out clear words.

John gritted his teeth and listened to his father.

"John, I swear, if you aren't home in the next fifteen minutes, you won't be leaving the house aside for school for the next six months."

"I'm on the way to the cinema now dad." Said John, trying to keep his tone neutral so Alex didn't know about the argument they were having.

"John, I will not have you out with that boy, certainly not on a date with him."

John sighed, "I'm going dad, I'll be back by eight."

"John, I'm not going to lie to you. If you keep up this- this ridiculous charade with these boys, I don't want you in my house any longer."

John's breath caught in his throat and he closed his eyes.

"We'll talk about this when I get home, at eight, after I see the film."

His dad didn't even wait to hear John's full sentence, he hung up on his son, leaving him seething. John turned off his phone and put it back in his pocket. His hand had left Alex's to answer the phone, but when he put his phone back in his pocket he didn't take it back.

Instead they walked down the road in silence, this time, that silence that had been comfortable in the café was suffocating.

"Uh John? Is everything with your dad okay?"

"It's fine." Snapped John, picking up his walking pace and not even sparing a glance at Alex. Alexander flinched away from John at this, his many years of associating angry tones with pain almost causing him to stumble and fall into the road.

Soon they reached the cinema and Alex pulled out the money George had given him to pay for a ticket. John shook his head and gently put his hand over Alex's.

"I'm sorry I snapped, please, let me make it up to you."

"You don't have to..."

"No, Alex, it's fine." He said, just the tiniest trace of impatience edging his voice.

Alex hastily put the money back in his pocket and nodded. They reached the front of the queue and John ordered for the both of them. He got one medium popcorn to share and two tickets. It was five twenty two, so the ads would start soon.

"John, are you sure every thing is alright?" Alex had taken a step away from John, afraid he would be mad at him for asking.

"Yeah, I'm alright. Let's just enjoy the film, okay?"

Alex smiled and moved closer to John, who wrapped his arm around his shoulder.

They gave their tickets to a grumpy looking worker in the booth and were directed to screen ten, just a few paces down the hall.

The auditorium was dark and only the silhouettes of people were visible in their seats, it was clear to the both of them though that it was packed.

Alex took a deep, steadying breath and walked up the stairs to the middle of the row of seats.

They were sat directly between an old couple with too many shopping bags for comfort (they were practically trapping them in their seats) and a group of three young women in their twenties.

The film started after a series of repetitive and laughably stupid commercials, John and Alex clutching each other in mirth, trying not to disturb the quiet of the cinema.

John had told Alex he'd picked the film because it was scary and that he'd thought it would be a good way to get Alexander clutching at him like a blonde from a crappy eighties movie.

Alex had been sure he would be able to prove John wrong, but as the film continued, the tension built and built, leaving Alex terrified and invested in the main characters. It was a horror from 1980, but Alex couldn't help be impressed with the directing and cinematography. The slow and chilling descent into madness and absurdity had the old lady next to them clutching her amused husband's arm.

Around two hours into the film, Alex was holding tightly onto John's arm and his head leant agaisnt his chest, the movie was steadily getting bloodier and there had been two jump scares already. In all fairness to Alex, John looked pretty spooked too. His eyes were wide as the film progressed and his Jaw had tensed noticeably. Looking at the people next to them, Alex saw this reaction was mirrored on many other people's faces.

They were currently watching a scene were one character, Wendy, was walking through a hallway of the hotel. Suddenly, in the eerie quiet of the cinema, the camera panned to a figure standing behind Wendy covered in blood.

Alex couldn't help let out a tiny yelp at this and jump in his seat, looking around he saw he wasn't the only one in the cinema who had been startled by this.

He could hear some people laughing behind him, obviously at his reaction to the film. He turned around angrily to glare at whoever it was and froze when he saw who it was.

Even in the dim lighting of the cinema, it was impossible to mistake those eyes. Icy blue and sharp, the eyes of Charles Lee.

Alex tried to turn around, praying to God he hadn't seen him, but it was too late. Their eyes met and a grin spread across Lee's face.

This was not good.

 **Lafayette is out of control people! Nah, I feel like he's such a lams shipper, like us but in the story!**


	16. Chapter 16

**Hey everyone, this chapter picks up exactly where the last one ended because they were originally one text.**

 **Trigger warnings: Bullying, panic attacks, arguments, self harm, crying, obsessive compulsive behaviour, self hatred, homophobic slur.**

 **There's a scene later in the chapter that I've marked with an X, just to warn you when it's about to start. It's kinda graphic for blood but it's not too bad. I could be blowing this out of proportion, but better safe than sorry.**

 **Oh my God, I'm so pissed. Writing chapter seventeen and Google decides to close on me! Great! Now I'm rewriting another two thousand words! Haha! Oh my God, euthanize me.**

 **This chapter is quite sad. Sorry.**

 **Oh, spoiler for the book 'The picture of Dorian Gray', I use a plot line in it as a metaphor. Just skip a few lines when you see the name Dorian Gray mentioned, if you care enough about the book.**

Charles was sitting directly behind them, with George and another guy Alex didn't recognise. It was clear they were in a three however, they kept nudging each other and looking at Alex.

Alexander was suddenly aware that John had his arm around him and it was painfully obvious they were on a date.

He nudged John quietly and leaned in to whisper in his ear.

"Lee, behind us. Don't look. He's seen me."

John stiffened slightly and nodded, his eyes still fixed on the screen ahead of him.

Alex tried to ignore the muttering behind him, he really did, but it was getting on his nerves.

A few minutes after he had first noticed Lee, he felt the boy behind him lean out of his seat towards Alex.

"You on a date huh?" Lee whispered, Alex could hear the smirk in his voice, he was picturing the frosty stare and high cheekbones in his mind.

Alex said nothing, he gripped John's arm tighter and watched the screen, not taking in anything that was happening in the film.

"I knew you were a freak, but I never took you as a fag, huh."

John had heard Lee say this and turned around sharply, his face angrier than Alex had ever seen it. His eyes were ablaze like molten amber and his jaw was set, sharp and defined. He looked unfairly attractive in the most dangerous way possible.

 _Goddamnit Alexander, this is not the time!_

Lee's face lit up with surprise and cruel excitement when he realised the boy next to Alex was John.

"Oh, it's you Laurens. Really Hamilton, the son of a republican politician? That's not gonna work..."

He shook his head mockingly and Alex had to hold John's wrist to stop him from standing up.

Lee kept up his torment, delighted that Alexander was stopping John from flying at him.

"This what you were talking about earlier Hamilton, isn't it? Is it because of the money you're dating him? Typical immigrant..."

Alex let his grip on John's arm go, only wanting one thing; to punch Lee in the face.

Lee was quicker though, as soon as they were on their feet he'd reached for his drink and thrown it directly over both of them, the ice cold soda chilling them, making Alex cry out.

He could see the old couple looking incredulously at Lee, scrambling to move their shopping bags away from the liquid now running down the leather seat.

John reached back his fist and punched Lee square in the face, knocking him backwards into George and making him cry out, clutching his nose.

People in the cinema were staring at them now, turning their attention away from the movie. George and the other boy were laughing loudly at John and Alex, who were shivering and furious.

George picked up his drink and John and Alex shrank back.

"Leave, don't make me waste my drink on you two."

John pulled Alex by the arm out of their row and together they stumbled down the steps and out of the auditorium, doing their best to ignore the stares of the cinema goers as they left. They ran out in to the lobby, blinking in the bright light.

John and Alex sat down on a small sofa outside and examined their clothes. Alex guessed it must have been coke because a huge dark stain was spreading on his jacket and shirt. He could feel his hair dripping, soaked and sticky. This jacket wasn't even his.

Alex shuddered as he felt an ice cube slide down his his spine, he took of his jacket and did his best to wring the soda out if it.

John looked like he'd gotten slightly less of the soda than Alex had, but his face was furious and his curls were flat, soaked with the drink.

"You fucking told Charles Lee about this?" The bitterness in his tone surprised Alex who jumped, he'd been squeezing the coke out if his hair.

"I didn't John I-"

"So what the hell did he mean then? Jesus Christ Alex! You can't shut your mouth for once?"

Alexander let go of his hair and dropped his hands limply at his sides. He could feel his breathing quickening and his hands were trembling now, droplets of coke running down his fingers to the floor.

He put his face in his hands and tried to take deep breaths, his ears ringing. He felt like he was having a heart attack, like the whole world was being crushed inwards around him.

John wrongly interpreted his silence as a confession of guilt and he scoffed.

"You can't even keep your stupid rivalry with Lee out of our date?"

Alex wanted to cry, but he squeezed his eyes shut then looked up at John furiously.

"You have no idea, John."

John laughed but it wasn't his usual warm, confident laugh. It was mirthless and cold.

"You know, my dad said if I went out with you tonight then he didn't want me in his house any longer."

Alex shook his head, the information combined with his panic attack too much for him.

"I told him I didn't care, now everything's ruined and I'll be kicked out anyway."

Alex reached forward to take John's hand but he snatched it away, eyes blazing angrily. The colour didn't resemble amber anymore.

"Don't fucking try that on me."

Alex slumped in his seat, glaring up at John.

"You're just like everyone else in this town, filthy rich, living in a house my parents couldn't afford with all the money they ever made in their lives. This isn't my fault, I don't see why you're so determined to blame me."

Alex felt the words burn his tongue but he kept his glare steady, fists clenched.

"Oh yeah? Your father walked out didn't he? Not like he ever made an honest days work." His tone was mocking and Alex could tell he had a lump in his throat.

Alex recoiled as if he'd been stung and glared at John.

"You don't know anything about my parents."

John shook his head, "why don't you just panic or something. It's all you ever seem to do anyway."

With that he grabbed his bag and walked out of the lobby, the automatic doors opening as he disappeared into the darkness.

Alex put his head in his hands and did exactly what John had told him to. He panicked. His breathing became shallow and fast, occasionally hitching irregularly and making him gasp in pain. He could feel his shoulders trembling and white light was burning his eyelids, flashing and dancing blindingly in front of him.

The doors of the cinema opened and people poured out, looking at Alex as they passed with varying degrees of disgust and concern on their faces, taking in his gasping, dry sobs and soaking wet, bedraggled appearance.

Alex barely even looked up when Charles, George and the other boy passed. He could hear them laughing amongst themselves and feel their eyes upon him.

When he looked up to watch them walk through the lobby he caught George's eye, who'd turned around to look at him. Alex didn't have amazing eyesight and he wasn't too focused due to the current panic attack he was experiencing, but he could have sworn he saw something like regret or at least pity in George's face.

Alex stood up just over twenty five minutes later. It was one of he longest panic attacks he'd ever experienced and he felt weak and drained. He was seriously concerned whether or not he'd be able to make it home without passing out.

He walked over towards the door and passed a teenager in cinema uniform, sweeping up discarded popcorn.

When he passed her, she took in his appearance. Red rimmed eyes, soaking clothes, trembling shoulders. She reached behind the counter of the ticket box and pulled out an unopened bottle of water, passing it to him with a sympathetic look on her face.

He took it silently and nodded his head in thanks to the girl.

"What's your name?" She asked, stopping her sweeping.

"Alexander Hamilton."

She smiled slightly. "Maria Reynolds."

His eyes widened. He recognised the name.

She was extremely pretty, he noticed. Her skin was a terracotta tan colour and her lips were full and painted a coral red. She had long and curly black hair, tied in a pony tail that was threaded through the hole in an Adidas cap. So this was Eliza's girlfriend.

She reached to the candy section of the food and threw him a Hershey's bar. He caught it, fumbling a second and nodded his thanks to the girle bfore walking out of the lobby into the night time.

The streets were dark and empty, Alex knew it was probably around eight thirty and that he was late, he didn't care.

He kind of knew his way around the town so started in the direction of the school, assuming he could walk home from there.

He had been walking about fifteen minutes and had just reached the school when a large black car pulled up next to him, he kept his head down and continued walking, terrified and remembering the self defensive classes Katherine had made him take.

"Alex?"

He turned around and looked at the car, confused. Eliza was sitting in the passenger's seat, the window rolled down with a concerned look on her face.

"Eliza." He said. It wasn't a question, just a statement of truth. He didn't have the energy to say anything else.

"You look like you need a ride."

Alex sighed and nodded, too tired for politeness and honestly fearful he would pass out if he didn't sit down soon.

The side door of the car opened and Alex stepped in. Driving was a tall looking girl with curly dark hair pulled into a ponytail and a pink hoodie. Eliza was in the passenger seat and next to him in the back sat a young looking teenager with wild, unruly curls and a yellow sun dress.

"Are you okay Alex? You don't look too good..."

Eliza stared as the car pulled away.

"I'm 'kay." He said quietly, gesturing to the left to direct the girl driving towards his house.

He knew he was probably coming across extremely rudely but he didn't have the energy for small talk.

The girl sitting next to him looked at him anxiously and stuck out a small hand.

"Peggy Schuyler, freshman."

Her voice was smooth and cheery, matching well with the beautiful yellow colour she wore.

"Alexander Hamilton."

The girl driving turned around for a moment to look at him, she didn't reach out for his hand.

"Angelica Schuyler."

The car was silent for a while, Alex could hear his heavy breathing, a souvenir from the panic attack he was still feeling unwelcome remnants of.

"You're not hurt are you?"

Eliza had twisted around in her seat and was eyeing his appearance with apprehension. He shook his head silently, closing his eyes and leaning back into his seat.

"What happened?"

Alex shrugged. Honesty couldn't hurt him now.

"I had a coke thrown at me, freaked out and then argued with my date. He walked out on me."

Alex felt his voice break towards the end if his sentence, tears threatened to spill down his cheeks so he looked at the ceiling of the car and blinked a few times.

Eliza winced and searched through the glove compartment. She pulled out a pack of wipes and handed them to him.

"For the coke. It's kinda on your face."

He pulled out a wipe and aggressively scrubbed his skin. Maybe if he rubbed hard enough he would bleed.

Peggy was rummaging around under her seat, she pulled out a blanket and offered it to him.

"You look cold."

He didn't want to ruin the blanket by getting coke all over it so he shook his head.

"It's okay. We're not far from my house."

They drove in silence for a while, houses and fields rushing by them in a blurred of inky noir and headlamp white

He nodded at Angelica and reached out to indicate a final right turn that took him onto the Washingtons' road. Angelina looked at him strangely as he signalled at her to slow down in front of the Washingtons' house.

"This is George Washington's house..." she said suspiciously, intelligent eyes boaring into his.

"I'm his foster son."

She looked slightly embarrassed and mouthed an 'oh' silently. He nodded and opened the car door, stepping out into the street.

"Thanks Eliza, Peggy, Angelica." He said, not bothering to force a smile. Eliza ran her eyes up and down him in concern and pulled him into a quick hug. He held his breath and closed his eyes, patting her gently on the back.

"See you at school Alex."

"Yeah."

She waved goodbye as Angelica stepped on the accelerator, the car moving away from him quickly, soon disappearing into the dark.

He pulled his bag tighter around his shoulders and walked up the drive to the door, cursing when he realised he didn't have keys.

He gulped and tried in vain to make himself look more presentable. Obviously, this was futile. He was covered in coke for God's sake.

The door was opened quickly and Alex cringed when he saw George standing there. He'd hoped Lafayette would answer.

George had been smiling when he greeted Alex, dressed in a plain white tee shirt and sweatpants with a mug of tea in his hands.

When he took in Alex's appearance more closely however, his smile dropped at once and he gently pulled Alex inside.

He could hear Martha in the kitchen singing, her voice cheery and light. Alex knew she would freak out when she saw him. He would be the one to ruin her evening.

Suddenly he didn't want to go into the kitchen, he didn't want to explain what had happened. To be fussed over and given tea and pity. Everyone treating him like he was delicate and broken. George and Martha couldn't make him do anything he didn't want to, or at least not without a fight. Even if he doubted he'd be able to defend himself against George's terrifying frame.

Alex pulled his arm out of George's grip and felt his face screw up with tears.

 _Great. You hold off the crying when you're alone and_ _no one can see you, but as soon as you're right in front of George..._

"Alex.. what's wrong?"

He turned around to the stairs and let out a strangled sort of sob, all the emotion he had been feeling since the cinema pouring down his face as tears.

He wiped them off his face roughly, catching his eye painfully with a metal button on his jacket. He didn't care. Alex ran up the stairs before he could embarrass himself further and stumbled into his room, dropping his bag carelessly.

He could hear George yelling his name from downstairs but he did nothing. He slammed his door shut and slid the lock in place.

He needed something sharp. Anything.

George and Martha were in the kitchen, the drawer of cutlery carefully watched and Lafayette had borrowed his scissors...

Alex reached for his bag and opened the zip with trembling fingers. He rummaged around frantically for his pencil case, not caring that he was crushing books and papers in his haste.

X

He finally found it and ripped it open, spilling pens and pencils all over his bedroom floor. Alex desperately searched for what he was looking for in the mess and finally found it. His compass.

The point on the end was sharp, unusually so and he'd cut himself accidentally on it many times. He threw his jacket off and flung it onto his bed, rolling up the sleeve of his shirt quickly.

With this, he couldn't be neat. The cuts were jagged and deep. Deeper than any he'd made before. They weren't so much cut, rather ripped into his flesh.

God, it hurt. It really, really hurt. He threw back his head in pain and hissed, choking back a strangled sob and feeling the blood run down his forearm. He was thankful then that the cuts weren't on the inside of his wrist, he wasn't sure it wouldn't have nicked an artery if they had been.

He didn't know if he could get away with just leaving this one alone to heal.

X

He got up on shaky legs and stumbled to the bathroom, turning on the tap and running it over his arm. He hastily grabbed some toilet paper and held it tightly down on his injury, wincing again.

He already regretted it. In fact, part of him had regretted it before he'd even done it.

He grabbed more tissue paper and wound it round his arm tightly, hoping to stem the blood flow until he could sneak down to find bandages that night.

He pulled off his ruined clothes, which was all of them, and put on a fresh shirt, pyjama bottoms and his hoodie.

He stiffened when he heard footsteps on the landing and a familiar French accent at his door.

"Alex? Are you okay?"

He glanced around the room and grabbed the compass, shoving it into his top drawer.

"Yeah, hold on." He called, trying to make his voice sound steady.

Alex slid the lock free after wiping his face free of any tears and opened the door.

Lafayette was stood on the landing in his pyjamas, his phone in one hand and a glass of water in the other.

"Alex, George said you were crying." His face was twisted in concern.

Alex shrugged, he couldn't deny it.

"Why is your hair wet? You just got in."

Alex cursed, he'd forgotten about the stupid coke.

"It's... I should probably tell you, it's all over your jacket, it's coke."

Lafayette looked confused.

"How did you get coke all over yourself?"

Alex took a deep breath, not sure what to say. If Lafayette talked to John about it, he'd probably tell him the truth, but if Alex told Lafayette the truth, everything else could come out. He decided to take the more moral option.

"Lee was there, he threw his coke on me and John."

Lafayette sighed and shook his head.

"Don't show him a reaction, it's what he wants to see. One day you'll rise up above him. In fact, you already have. You should shower, it's okay about the jacket. I'll see if I can get it laundered if the coke doesn't come out."

Alex nodded numbly and grabbed the jacket off his bed, handing it to his foster brother. He would offer to pay the laundry fee but any money he had was from his foster parents, who would have to pay for the jacket to be washed anyway. There was no point.

"Are you okay? Why were you crying?"

Alex shook his head.

"I don't want to talk about it."

Lafayette sighed again and pulled Alex into a hug, not noticing when he screwed his face up in pain as his arm was trapped between them.

"Just don't do anything... irréfléchi, okay?"

 _rash_

Alex knew what he meant, it was too late for that now though, he'd disappointed Lafayette already.

"Okay."

Lafayette handed him the glass of water and watched Alex drink it down gratefully. His mouth was dry from anxiety and crying.

Laf took back the empty glass and smiled, walking back downstairs with the jacket over his arm.

George sat in the kitchen, stirring his already well made tea nervously. He looked up as Lafayette walked in, the glass empty and a jacket over his arm.

"Is he okay Gil? Did he say what happened?"

Lafayette let out an exasperated groan and sat down at the kitchen table.

"Charles Lee dumped coke over him, this jacket and his clothes are pretty ruined."

George rubbed his face in exhaustion and stood up, pacing up and down the kitchen.

"Did you text John? Do you know why Alex was crying?"

Lafayette nodded, "I texted him but he isn't responding. C'est assez strange. Alex said he didn't want to talk about it."

"Was he hurt? Do you know if he... hurt himself?"

Lafayette shook his head.

"He's a mess, mais, I don't think he's physically hurt. I don't know about... that last thing."

Martha looked pale and her posture was tense.

"Do you think he and John had an argument?"

Lafayette shrugged, a frown on his face.

"I don't think so, they like each other a lot."

He trailed off slightly, realising George and Martha didn't know it had been a date, although, he supposed it had been obvious. Neither of them however, batted an eyelid.

"Do you think Alex is in any state to go in to school tomorrow?" Asked Martha, wringing her hands.

"Je ne sais pas, maybe just don't wake him tomorrow. If he awakes and wants to go à l'école he should, if he doesn't then he needs the rest."

George frowned at this, not one hundred percent sure he wanted Alex to miss any more school. Then again, the boy's health came first.

"Okay, that sounds reasonable. Gilbert, you should go to bed. It's past nine."

Lafayette rolled his eyes and stood up, moving towards the kitchen door.

"Leave the jacket here honey, let me see if I can get it clean." Said Martha, taking the jacket from her son's arm. He smiled and kissed her on the cheek, pulling George into a one armed hug before walking back upstairs.

Alex lay on his bed, sobbing into his pillow. Now that he was alone he had given up any pretence of being okay. The thick fabric was muffling any noise he made but he was still conscious enough to attempt to be quiet.

He felt disgusted with himself. It was his fault the date had been ruined. Lee hated _him_ not John, if John had wisely chosen to take someone else to the cinema, someone cooler and better looking than Alex, none of this would have happened.

And what had John said to him? His father had walked out, that he never made an honest day's work. That Alex should just panic, because that was all he ever did anyway.

Alex thought of the look of fury on John's face, the whispered taunts of Charles Lee. He was a fag, freak, immigrant, burden...

He didn't deserve John. Part if him was still furious for what he'd said to him, but a larger part knew it was true, that he deserved it.

Jesus Christ, John could get kicked out of his home because of him.

Alex rolled over onto his back and stared up at the ceiling, thinking of the sketch John had done earlier.

He remembered internally comparing it to a Dorian Gray-esque piece. That was ironic, considering the fact that one of the lovers in that novel ended up killing the other. The one that had dome the painting.

Alex hadn't killed John, but he'd killed everything they'd had. He was stupid, foolish, naïve to think John would ever be happy with him. He was nothing. John was everything, John deserved a boy who was confident and happy and good looking and wild, like him. Not Alex.

These thoughts swarmed his head for hours like insects, burrowing their way into a rotting corpse. He could feel their buzzing wings and the sharp sting of each one as it nestled into his head.

He didn't know how long he lay there, crying silently into his pillow.

Eventually, he rememberd that he needed to shower. Alexander hoped there was still some hot water left, Lafayette had an annoying habit of taking twenty minute long, hot showers every day.

He pulled off his clothes and examined his hair in the mirror, trying not to look too closely at his face. Red, puffy eyes and blotchy skin, purple bruises around his throat.

Alex stepped into the shower and turned the water up as hot as it would go, which was scalding and near boiling.

The steam choked him, thick and swirling around the shower room. He couldn't even see his hand stretched out in front of him. The water burned him, stinging the cut on his wrist like he was showering in alcohol. He knew he'd be red raw by the time he got out, but the way Alexander saw it, the dead could only feel cold, so maybe, just maybe if he burned...

He picked up a sponge lying at the bottom of the shower and proceeded to scrub his skin harshly, desperate to remove any traces of what had happened that day. The coke, the fear, the anger, the guilt.

The sponge was rough and harsh, removing the first few layers of his skin quickly.

Soon sensitive parts of his ankles and elbows were bleeding, pin pricks of blood dotting incarnadine skin. He didn't stop however, cleaning furiously until the water ran freezing cold. He dropped the sponge as if coming out of a trance and turned off the water.

He pulled his clothes back on, wincing at the friction against his raw skin.

From the darkness outside his room, he presumed all the lights in the house were turned off and that everyone was asleep. A faint snoring was coming from Lafayette's room. He could go to the kitchen now, get some bandages. He just had to be quiet.

He unlocked his bedroom door quietly and padded down the stairs with the smooth silence of a cat. The kitchen door was open. This was good, he wouldn't have to creak it open loudly, alerting everyone in the house.

He stumbled to the cabinet where he knew bandages were kept and pulled up his sleeve. The tissue he'd wrapped around his arm was bright red, wet and disintegrating with blood. His hoodie had even been stained on the inside.

He pulled the tissue he'd wrapped his arm with after the shower away. He threw it in the bin and grabbed a roll of bandages and sudocrem from the cupboard above the sink.

He gently cleaned the cut with some cotton swabs and dabbed on the antiseptic cream before wrapping the cut carefully in bandages. He hoped this would be enough to stem the blood flow and prevent any infection. Dear God, he hoped it would be enough.

He dumped the empty box of bandages and bloody cotton swabs in the bin before drinking a glass of water and walking back upstairs.

Alex collapsed into his bed and flicked off his bedside lamp. It was disconcerting to him how much he'd cried today, considering the fact he almost never did. Apparently he wasn't quite finished yet however, as when he buried his face into his pillow, sobs choked him again, soaking the pillow with his tears.

He pressed his palms to his eyelids and took long, deep breaths, trying to calm himself down. His breath hitched in his throat a few times and he could hear his heart pounding in his chest. Eventually, the gasping sobs turned into silent tears leaking salty and warm across his nose and onto the bed.

He couldn't shake thoughts of John out of his mind. His memories going back to Pace, to all the times Lee and George had beaten him up, to the Johnsons and the Harveys. Surely there was a reason why every thing that had happened to him had transpired. Surely it was because he deserved it? He didn't think good people got kicked instead of kissed. He didn't think he was one of those good people.

He slept fitfully that night, dreaming of vauge yet menacing voices in his head whispering sinister threats and cruel truths. The pillow was damp with tears by the time he had fallen asleep.

 **yikes. I'm sorry dudes. Don't be too mad at John yet, let his side of the story be told.**


	17. Chapter 17

**Hello nerds, thanks for so many reviews, I never expected this story to take off like it has!**

 **I'm going back to school this week, which means updates will be a little more sporadic. They'll still be more than once a week and if I don't manage to, I'll let you know. Don't worry though, I love this story and really want t** **o continue it.**

 **These last few chapters have been quite sad, and to be honest, it's not getting much better. I'll always do trigger warnings though, feel free to message me if I've missed a trigger warning that could be necessary.**

 **Trigger warnings: minor physical child abuse, emotional abuse, unhealthy eating behaviours, self hatred, references to homelessness, homophobic slur, anxiety, mentions of self harm, obsessive/ compulsive behaviour.**

George rolled over and pressed the silencing button on his alarm clock, yawing and sitting up to stretch. Waking early came naturally to him, the years of military service in his youth had taught him to rise without complaint.

Martha groaned slightly and opened her eyes, still only half awake.

"Shall I start breakfast?" He asked, knowing she'd probably want another five minutes or so to properly wake up.

Martha nodded and yawned, rolling over to face the window and watch the sunrise fill the room with a sweet, Botticellian pink that promised winter's arrival.

George pulled on a sweater and made his way to the kitchen, tapping some jazz notes onto the counter top as the kettle boiled.

He stewed the tea bags in the boiling water for a minute or so, watching the rich brown slowly diffuse into the cup.

He opened the bin and dumped the tea bags in, about to close it when he noticed something.

He looked closer into the bin and felt a sick feeling twist in his stomach. Thrown in there recently, maybe the last thing to be, was an empty box of bandages underneath one of the tea bags and even worse, a few cotton pads that seemed to be stained with blood.

George shut the bin quickly and dropped the spoon in the sink carelessly, his heart beating too quickly for comfort.

But he and Martha had been so _careful_ , taking the razors, keeping an eye on the kitchen drawers...

He couldn't jump to conclusions though. Maybe Martha had cut her hand cooking? But she would have told him... Gilbert was clumsy, he was always tripping and dropping things, maybe this had been him?

He absently poured milk into the tea and picked up the mugs, sloshing the drink down the side of the cup in his distracted state.

He finished breakfast quickly, it was rather sub standard compared to what he could normally make, but it would have to do. There was no time to make a new one.

Martha came down a minute later, her hair out naturally today, in her work clothes.

He put the tea down in front of her and sat down in silence, tapping a few more jazz notes, unsure how to bring up the situation.

Martha being Martha, noticed this change instantly. She leant back in her chair and watched him shrewdly.

"Everything okay George?"

He shook his head and took a sip of tea.

"No, there's something worrying me that could concern Alex."

Martha leaned forward slightly and raised an eyebrow, telling him to continue.

"There's an empty box of bandages and some bloody cotton rounds in the bin."

Martha put her tea down and sucked on her teeth, eyes closed for a moment.

"How to we know it's not something more...innocent?"

George shook his head and shrugged.

"It could be, I don't know, I just think it's a little concerning."

Martha rubbed her face tiredly and looked slightly older than she was just for a moment, worn out and worried.

"Is he up yet? So you think he's going in today?"

George split his toast into quarters absent mindedly.

"No, he's not awake yet. I think Gilbert is though."

Martha stirred her tea slowly.

"We were going to leave him at home alone if he didn't wake up for school," she took a sip and winced as the liquid scalded her tongue, "but I'm now thinking that's not a good idea."

"I could work from home. Most of today was going to be writing a debate and doing paper work anyway."

Martha pursed her lips.

"You don't have any meetings?."

George shrugged and finished the last of his toast, "none I would go to if I were actually in the office."

They finished the meal in silence, already tidying away when Lafayette walked in to the kitchen, his hair, unusually, down for once.

"Maman, do you have time to help me with my hair?"

Martha sighed and smiled, reaching into a box on the kitchen table and grabbing a comb and some hair ties.

"I can do the twists leading into a ponytail. I don't have time to do them till the end of your hair."

Lafayette groaned and poured himself some coffee and a bowl of cereal, sitting down and tucking in while Martha started on his hair

George looked him up and down as he ate, scanning him for any cuts that could explain the bandages and cotton rounds in the bin. There weren't any, at leat no visible ones, and Lafayette was wearing a tank top.

George walked back upstairs and changed, passing Alex's door on the way and stopping for a second to listen for signs that he was awake.

There was no light under his door and the room was quiet, so George assumed he was still asleep.

He walked back downstairs to see Martha twisting Lafayette's hair tightly against his head. Lafayette was scrolling through his phone absently, occasionally smirking and tapping on the screen.

"Has John replied?"

Lafayette looked up and nodded.

"Yeah, but he said the same thing that Alex did. Just that Lee, Frederick and Seabury were there and Lee threw coke at them."

"Talk to him about it at school, ask him what's going on. There's something Alexander's not telling us."

Lafayette nodded again and winced and Martha tugged sharply at his hair.

"Maman! Tu me fait mal!"

Martha rolled her eyes and continued twisting the hair nimbly, fingers working quickly and gracefully.

"I could be getting into work earlier now, catching up on emails, but I'm helping you. Don't complain."

Gilbert grinned, unable to turn to his mother he sighed.

"I love you too."

Martha smiled and patted his head, relaxing her grip a little to make sure she didn't tug too hard. George smiled at this scene of gentle domesticity and finished his coffee, worries about Alex still at the forefront of his thoughts.

oo

John groaned and rolled over onto his side, wondering desperately if there was time for five more minutes in bed.

He dressed quickly and threw a disgusted glance at the discarded clothes next to his bed from the night before, still stained dark with coke.

He regretted what he'd said to Alex the night before but still felt a sharp, twisting anger at him for telling Lee. Of all people to casually chat to about your _male_ date, Lee!

Part of this anger was perhaps unjustified, John hadn't spoken to his father since he'd come home and a small but bitter part of him maintained that this wouldn't be the case if it weren't for Alexander.

He changed slowly, dragging on jeans a hoodie, his go-to outfit when he couldn't think of anything better to wear.

He walked downstairs and checked the coast was clear before heading into the kitchen to start breakfast. He had no desire to run into his father, he'd been in bed by the time John was back from the cinema and hadn't even seen his face yet.

John unplugged his phone from the charger and scrolled through the texts from Lafayette.

 **Lafrançaise (yesterday): John, what happened? Alex seems upset.**

 **Lafrançaise(yesterday): He's not leaving his room, qu'est qui ce passe?**

 **çaise (53 minutes ago): Christ, what's going on?**

 **Lafrançaise (20 minute ago): I know you can see these texts...**

John's stomach lurched with a feeling that was murky and unidentifiable, was it satisfaction that Alex was affected by this or was it guilt for the same reason?

He typed out a quick response.

 **John (just now): Lee was there, acted like an asshole and threw coke on Alex and me.**

He didn't want to talk about the argument, what he'd said to Alex, what Alex had said to him.

 _"_ _Oh yeah? Your father walked out didn't he? Not like he ever made an honest days work."_

 _"Why don't you just panic or something. It's all you ever seem to do anyway."_

John put his head in his hands and groaned. He had been mad at Alex, he still was mad at him, but did he have to make it so personal? Using Alex own trauma against him, he was disgusted with himself.

Even more sickening however, part of him still thought he had deserved it. Maybe it had been how Lee had called them fags, how much it had reminded John of his father. Maybe part of him blamed Alex for this.

John brought his breakfast into the living room and sat down on the sofa, still looking down at his phone. When he heard a voice in the doorway he jumped and nearly spilt burning coffee on his lap.

"John."

He looked up and felt his stomach sink when he met his father's eyes.

"Dad."

His father raised an eyebrow. "Have a good time last night? I'm guessing you didn't, by the way you slammed the front door."

John winced, remembering his rage the previous evening.

"I guess."

John's father smiled slightly.

"So you won't be seeing Alexander anymore?"

John stayed silent at this, eyes set firmly on that elephant pin.

"I'm glad, maybe next time you can take a girl in your year. I hear Senator Schuyler's daughters are charming, from a respectable family too."

John looked up at his father confused.

"I'm still gay, you know that right?"

John's father scoffed dismissively, waving his hand.

"I thought you'd say that. Give it time."

John stood up and felt his face grow hot, feeling resentment bloom in his chest.

"No. I like boys dad, one bad date isn't going to change that!"

John watched his father's eyes narrow in anger as his son's voice rose to a near yell.

"I suggest you listen carefully to what you're saying John."

John closed his eyes tight and let out a deep breath.

"Stop trying to fix me. God, this isn't the 18th century dad."

Henry Laurens's jaw twitched and his eyes were livid.

"How many times have I told you," his voice climbed to a yell, "not to curse in this house!"

John balled his fists and seethed, "I just need you to accept the fact that I. Don't. Like. Girls!"

John's father closed his eyes, looking almost pained and turned around to the bookshelf behind him. He slid a bible out of its place and flicked through it for a moment, breathing heavily. He evidently found what he was looking for and thrust the book into John's hands.

"Read it. Out loud. Leviticus, chapter 20, verse 13."

John raised his eyebrows and felt his stomach clench. When it came to this kind of crap, it was best to comply with his dad.

"If a man lies with a male as with a woman,"

Fuck, he knew this passage. His breath caught in his throat and he looked up at his dad, his expression frustrated and indignant.

"You can't be serio-"

"Read it."

John gulped and looked back down at the book.

"Both of them have committed an abomination; they shall surely be put to death; their blood is upon them."

John felt sick. His stomach was like a cage of butterflies, angry and desperate to get out. Or like that floating feeling you get in an elevator when you move up too fast.

"Do you understand John?"

His father's tone was condescending and sanctimonious. John felt a sudden surge of hatred towards him that he'd never experienced before.

"Firstly, I'm not 'laying' with anyone, I'm fifteen. Secondly, I don't give a fuck."

John stared straight into his father's face, his eyes daring, full of defensive rage.

 _Slap_

The sudden sting of pain across the left side of John's face sent him stumbling to the direction in which he'd been hit. He clutched his cheek in shock and looked up at his father with a mixture of horror and bewilderment.

Henry Laurens was shaking his hand casually in mid air, as though he was the one who'd been hurt.

"You'd best get to school, you'll be late otherwise."

John felt tears sting his eyes at his father's tone. Not a touch remorseful, just cold in the way that expected to be obeyed immediately.

He didn't need to be told a second time. John sprinted up the stairs, crashing into his bedroom and immediately throwing open his drawers. He grabbed at the carefully folded clothes and stuffed them into his school bag, shoving in his sketchbooks and pencils a second later.

On the landing he almost knocked his sister over in his haste.

"John... what are you doing?" She rubbed her eyes sleepily and yawned, her fringe fluttering with her breath.

"Martha, I'm gonna be gone for a little while okay, I'll see you soon."

"What happened to your face?" Her dark eyes were wide and she looked so young. Too young to be the second oldest...

John slid past his ten year old sister, not wanting to answer her question and sprinted back downstairs, running into the kitchen and grabbing his phone charger. After a split second of deliberation he stuffed some food and a bottle of water into his bag too. Just in case he couldn't find anywhere to couch surf. The bus station might later propose its self as a viable contender for shelter.

He looked around the house for the last time and in a split second of rage, picked up a vase that one of his father's republican friends had bought. He flung it to the floor and watched the china smash on impact before stumbling out of the house and down the driveway to school.

oo

When Alex finally awoke, he noticed three things.

Firstly, the cuts on his arms were stinging painfully. It appeared he'd rolled over during the night into an awkward position and the skin had been pulled, causing the cut to open and bleed more freely over night.

Secondly, his entire body stung and felt tender and sore, particularly the sensitive points in the crook of his elbow. Damn that burning shower and his obsessive need to clean himself of the events of last night.

Thirdly, it was light out. Far too light for it to be his usual waking time.

Alex sat up hastily and looked at the clock. It was nine thirty.

 _Shit._

He clambered out of bed and started frantically picking up the stationary strewn around the room, shoving it into his pencil case. He stepped on a pen and it rolled, sending him crashing to the floor and hitting his leg painfully against the chair at his desk. He stood up quickly and winced, pulling off his pyjama bottoms and shirt, changing into jeans and a fresh tee shirt with impressive speed.

He paused for a second, hearing quick footsteps on the landing. Alex pulled on his hoodie to hide the bandages from prying eyes and knelt down to shove books into his school bag.

oo

George opened his laptop and typed in the password, immediately clicking into the news to update himself on current events.

It was vital he kept up to date with politics and with the coming nominations for the primaries, he was nervous about being knowledgeable enough on recent political affairs. He had just clicked into an article on the Trump administration's foreign policy when he heard a loud crash sound from upstairs.

Without a second thought, he was out of his chair and sprinting up the stairs. He slid to a halt outside Alexander's room and knocked frantically at the door.

He could hear the teen inside cursing, George doubted he could even hear the knocking over his own monologue of expletives.

Fearing he was hurt, George pushed open the door anyway and found Alexander knelt on the floor, shoving school books into his bag.

"Alexander, are you alright? Are you hurt?"

Alex looked up and George winced. This might have been a cruel observation to make, but he was a mess.

Alex's complexion was blotchy and pink, especially incarnadined around his eyes. His eyelids were swollen and puffy, underlined with dark circles. It was painfully obvious he'd cried himself to sleep. He was hastily dressed in a creased hoodie and jeans that hadn't even been zipped or buttoned up yet.

"Alex..." started George again, his concern piqued.

"I'm so, so late! George, I'm really, really sorry, I overslept. Oh God..."

He continued frantically stuffing books into his bag and eyeing the room wildly for anything he'd missed.

"Alex!" George's voice cut through the room like a knife, halting the teenager in his tracks.

"It okay, it's okay." He reassured him, "Martha and I let you sleep in. We thought you'd need a day off after last night."

Alexander looked at him incredulously.

"I can't just miss school! I'm going to be so behind on my classes, there are two essays due in today! I have to speak with Monsieur Grants about my test and I have to catch up on science, if I don't go in I'm going to fail Christmas, then I'll fail end of year's, and then finals, and then I can't go to university, oh God-"

George stared at the boy in shock.

"Alex!"

The teenager halted his frantic rant and stopped, a hand clutched in his hair and his eyes panicked.

"This only serves as more reason to stay home. You need rest."

Alex collapsed onto his bed and put his face in his hands.

George hastened to sit down next to him and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"Hey, Alex, it's okay."

Alex groaned and shook his head.

"Look, one day at home isn't going to kill you. You can catch up with homework and rest some more. Martha and I are worried about you."

He felt Alexander give a small chuckle at that statement and frowned, what was so funny?

Alex looked up at him then through red rimmed eyes.

"Aren't you working toady?"

George nodded, "I am, but from home."

Alex sighed and took a few deep breaths with his eyes closed.

"I can still go in. I've only missed-"

"No."

George's voice was steady and assertive, his hand on Alex's shoulder for a moment felt grounding rather than restraining.

"You need rest Alexander."

Alex rolled his eyes ever so slightly and stood up, shrugging George's arm off his shoulder.

"I'm going to start some homework then." He said rather coolly.

George stood there in the bedroom for a moment, unsure what to do and confused at the sudden mercurial behaviour.

Alex was still thumbing through the text book so George turned and left the room silently, bewildered.

Alex sat down at his desk and put his head on the textbook, taking a few deep breaths before picking up his pen, a sheet of paper and starting to write.

oo

Lafayette made his way to the yard outside the second the bell rang for break. He'd not had a class with John all morning and hadn't had the opportunity to talk to him yet.

It was a cool day, the bite of an October breeze made its self known to Laf as soon as he stepped out of the warm school building.

The trees hadn't yet lost all their leaves but many hung partially bare, like skeletons with bony limbs twisting outwards, reaching for something with curled fingers and gnarled veins.

He could see the sharp outlines of Hercules and John under the tree, sat on the now sparse and dry grass.

He drew closer and dumped his bag down at the roots of the tree, turning to John and Hercules, ready to interrogate his friend on the events of the previous night.

Instead, when he turned, he saw Hercules with a large arm clutching John's shoulder tightly, wearing a stormy expression. John's face was like stone and his left cheek was slightly purple, a clear bruise marring grey against his tanned skin.

"Merde! Jean! Qu'est qui s'est passé?"

 _Shit! John! What happened?_

John sighed and rubbed his face, wincing as he probed the bruise with his index finger.

"My dad."

Lafayette collapsed onto the grass next to John and gaped at him.

"He's never hit you!"

John shrugged this time, and leant further into Hercules.

"We had an argument."

Hercules grit his teeth and let out a breath through his nose.

"Can you tell us what happened?"

John nodded again.

"Yeah."

He sat up a little straighter and some colour came back to his cheeks, the kind of pink someone goes when they're angry.

"He realised the date last night hadn't gone great so he just assumed I was fixed or whatever, that I wasn't gay."

Lafayette felt his stomach turn but he said nothing, internally thanking the fact that he'd been given a foster father who was so supportive.

"I told him I was still gay, one date wouldn't change that. He got mad and made me read some bible passage. Leviticus or whatever. I called his bullshit and he hit me. I grabbed my stuff, put it in my school bag and smashed his stupid vase. I'm not going back there."

Lafayette frowned.

"John, were will you stay? We have room at our house if you need it."

John shook his head. He was not going back to Lafayette's house. Not when Alex was there.

"My dad doesn't like Mr Washington. You know how he is."

Lafayette narrowed his eyes at this, the animosity between their fathers had never stopped John before. What had changed? Surely now that John had left he wouldn't give damn.

Hercules spoke up, "John, I have room at my house. If you don't mind the couch, until we can find something better."

John nodded, hand still resting on his cheek and his eyes absent.

"Where's Alex?" He asked suddenly, sitting up and looking around as if expecting to see him.

"He didn't come in today. Maman et papa wanted him to rest because of last night."

John felt that strange, murky feeling grip him again, still not sure how he felt about this. He supposed he could be glad he didn't have to face Alex yet.

"Hang on, what happened? I wasn't the group chat last night. Fill me in."

Hercules looked from John to Lafayette, who shrugged.

"To be honest, I don't know what happened either. John?"

Lafayette looked at John with an eyebrow cocked.

John coughed and looked at his hands.

"My dad called halfway through and told me if I kept going out with boys he didn't want me in the house, then at the cinema we were sitting right in front of Charles Lee, Samuel Seabury and George Frederick."

Hercules drew in a breath, his eyes wide.

"What happened next?" He asked, horrified.

"Lee was talking to Alex, calling him a fag, we stood up and Lee threw coke on us, I punched him in the face and we left."

Lafayette frowned.

"Are you sure that's all? "

Hercules looked at Lafayette strangely, "what do you mean Laf?"

Lafayette thought for a second.

"Alex normally puts up with Lee and George. Last night was different, he was really upset about something."

John cleared his throat, suddenly angry again.

"We had an argument after we left the cinema."

Hercules and Lafayette looked wide eyed at John, who elaborated.

"Lee said that Alex told him about our date. He obviously showed up because he knew we'd be there. That was Alex's fault."

Hercules looked confused.

"Why would Alex tell Lee that?"

John scoffed.

"He's always talking about something. Christ, the dude has no brain to mouth filter."

Lafayette scowled.

"Stop it. Not when Alex isn't even here to defend himself."

John rolled his eyes and Lafayette stared at him. He knew how much John liked Alex; he'd seen the looks he gave him when Alex wasn't watching, the looks that they gave each other. He could only put this behaviour down to the fact that John was going through a tough time with his dad.

"You should go to the medical for that bruise. They have shit for that stuff."

Lafayette stood up abruptly, prompting Hercules and John to follow him hastily.

While John was in the bathroom in the medical room, Hercules put his hand on Lafayette's arm.

"I never said Laf, but I like your hair."

oo

Alex's pen flew furiously across his paper, scribbling line after line of words. His head was so full of swarming ideas and phrases that he was having trouble making his hand keep up with his rapid thoughts. An essay for American politics about the evolution of racism had quickly turned into a seven thousand word essay on the mass incarceration of racial minorities in America.

His face was leant close to the paper and his pen was loosing ink, he pressed down harder, explaining his opinions on the involvement of corporations and businesses in state and federal legislation.

The pen snapped.

Alex cursed as a large blob of ink settled over his latest word and dropped his pen to the side, snatching at a tissue to dab at the stain.

The work was not so ruined that he'd have to rewrite it, but that last sentence would have to be crossed out and redone.

He looked up at the clock and started a little, it was twelve thirty. He'd been writing for three hours.

Alex went to his window and opened it, allowing the fresh air to blow into his room. It was stuffy and dark in there, he was sick of it.

He heard footsteps on the landing at turned to the door. There was a quick knocking to which he called out, "Come in!"

George opened the door and stood before Alex.

"You haven't eaten today have you?"

His voice was gruff and concise as usual, which Alex didn't mind. He'd rather that than someone who never said what they were thinking.

Alex shrugged and pushed his chair away from the desk to face George.

"I've made lunch, if you want you can bring your work down and do it while you eat."

"Okay." Agreed Alex. He picked up his paper and a new pen, as well as a notebook of blank, lined writing paper.

George had papers and pens strewn across the kitchen table and his laptop was open on a word document. He'd set out a sandwich for each of them and some coffee for Alex.

Alex ignored the food, wanting to continue his essay, annoyed that his streak had been broken by that damned pen.

He set the work out and began to write again, his pen moving rapidly across that paper in his sweeping, loopy handwriting.

After a while, he started to get back into the flow of his writing and the noise of the laptop keyboard clicking was drowned out by the scratching of his pen.

He forgot totally about the sandwich and coffee, which by now had gone cold. When Alexander wrote, he wrote. He didn't eat or chat or drink. The only way for him to concentrate properly was to lose himself in the work.

Another advantage of being such a fervent writer was that if he was thinking about whether a word made sense in the context he'd used it or if a sentence was running on too long, he wasn't thinking about John. He didn't have that burning feeling in the back of his throat he only got when he felt he'd disappointed someone. He didn't feel like crying or cutting himself if he was writing.

George looked up momentarily from his laptop and glanced at Alex's full mug of coffee and untouched sandwich. He took in the frenzied scribbling of his pen and smiled to himself, he was reminded of his college years. The all nighters and two day writing marathons he'd pulled in finals week.

"I never knew you were on for cold coffee." George quipped, smiling slightly.

Alex jumped and put down his pen, sighing when he felt his coffee cup. It was stone cold.

"Leave it, just eat the sandwich."

Alex picked up the sandwich reluctantly and nibbled at the crust, his eyes scanning over his writing.

"What are you writing about?"

Alex put down the sandwich.

"It's for American politics, about the evolution of racism in America."

George grinned. "The debate I'm writing is on counteracting modern racism."

Alex looked intrigued, leaning forward on his elbows with an absorbed look in his eyes.

"Is the debate for the Senate campaign?"

"Yeah, I'm going up against Lee or some other republican candidate in the next few months. I have to guess what kind of questions the moderator will ask and type up answers."

Alex made made to stand up, halfway out if his chair.

"Can I read it?"

George nodded, "but only if I can read yours."

Alex's face fell for a second and George was worried he'd overstepped a line. Then the boy shrugged and handed his foster father the paper.

They sat in silence for a while, reading eachother's work. Alex finished first, the document being shorter than his own. After all, it was a debate, not a speech.

George turned the page and continued reading, his eyebrows moving higher and higher as he read further and further.

 _Racism and modern day prejudices are almost invariable to the ones held in the formative days of our country. Intrinsic and ingrained into society still, the main difference lies in the form of these beliefs. From blatant hate groups like the KKK or WAR to the Obama birth certificate controversy, we cannot doubt that racism is alive and thriving across America._

 _Once we put aside useless and backwards ideas of respectability politics and oppression denial, we can start to think of solutions. This however, also proves its self difficult._

 _In the words of Albert Einstein, one 'cannot alter a condition with the same mindset that created it in the first place.'_

 _In other words, solutions require thinking that transcends the mindset which caused and/or contributes to undesirable conditions..._

George finished the essay a few minutes later and put it down, glancing up at Alexander with new respect in his eyes.

"This is exemplary Alexander, you've raised ideas I've never even heard vocalised before."

Alex shrugged, "your debate is good too."

George laughed, "I'm upset I'm not going up against you. Do you know how boring it is to refute the same repetetive points these republicans use all the time?"

Alex grinned slightly and sat back down, picking up his pen again.

"Put down the pen Alex, you need to eat something."

He thought he heard a small sound of protest from Alex's throat but watched as the teen took a few bites, chewing and swallowing slowly.

Alex really didn't want to eat. He felt he should be punishing himself for what had happened with John, for how much trouble he'd caused. Eating felt wrong and selfish to him right now.

He finished the first half of the sandwich and chanced a look at George. He'd turned back to his laptop. Good, he could stop.

The day passed in pretty much that same way. Alex got more writing done than he would have ever been able to do in school and temporarily forgot about John.

Martha and Lafayette came home at around half past four. Alex took this as a que to return to his room, George would log off soon and Alex didn't want to disturb anyone in the kitchen by writing there for another few hours. While he was gathering up his papers and pens, Lafayette sat down beside him.

"John said you argued yesterday."

He leant back in his chair and folded his arms, this blunt nature was typical to him. Maybe it was his very literal grasp of the English language and his tendency to phrase everything when speaking it in a very succinct way, maybe it was just his character, but when he was like this Alex knew he wanted answers.

"Yeah..." Responded Alexander, feeling it would be churlish to lie.

"Must have been some argument, neither of you will say anything about it."

"Gilbert, on en reparlera plus tard."

 _We'll talk about this later_

Lafayette shook his head.

"Non, on en parlerons maintenant."

 _No, we'll talk about it now._

Alex scowled, frustrated by his foster brother's lack of tact and sensitivity.

"laisse-moi tranquille."

 _Leave me alone._

Alex stood up, his stationary in his arms. He looked away from Lafayette and walked out of the kitchen, leaving his foster brother sat alone at the table.

Alex didn't sleep that night, he shouldn't have been surprised. He wrote for another three hours until dinner, which he'd asked to be allowed to eat in his room. George had shown reservations about letting him, worried that Alex wouldn't eat, but he was eventually allowed.

Alex didn't eat, he shouldn't have been surprised. He left the plate on the desk next to his writings and ignored it, too busy and shameful to have it.

Alex cut himself again that night, he shouldn't have been surprised. He was more careful this time with the compass, this time the bleeding stopped quickly.

He took another shower, burning hot like the last one. He used the sponge again, scrubbing vehemently until his hands and elbows were chapped and pink, burning from the traction and heat.

When the water ran cold, he got out. Shivering in the sudden cold of his room, he threw on a pyjama top and hoodie before sitting back down at his desk.

It was going to be a long night.

 **Hey, link on my profile to picture of Daveed Diggs with hair like Lafayette's in this chapter.**


	18. Chapter 18

**Hello! I'm trying to write as much as I can while I have the time. I'm back at school so this chapter will probably be up by friday, I'm writing this on Tuesday so you know.**

 **I got moved to a higher class for English, French and history. (I guess honours class in America?) And I'm freaking out. I feel like I don't deserve to be there. I don't know. There's a lot of stress right now in my life.**

 **Thanks for all the great reviews. I'm sorry to all my readers who were extremely angry at my treatment of Alex and John in the last few chapters. I recall someone said they would take them away from me if I hurt them when reviewing chapter fifteen. Sorry.**

 **Anyone willing to beta for me? Just for a few chapters or so? If you're willing to deal with like 4-10,000 words of editing. It won't be for long. It'd be good if you had work already on this site I could read to get an idea of your style and tone. I like to know what I'm getting myself into. If you could be kinda quick that would be good too, I tend to want to update very often.**

 **French translations at the bottom. Sorry, just that this time they would have ruined the flow if they were in the middle of the text.**

 **LamsPickles: he's not insane though... just mentally ill. Yeah, no.**

 **Trigger warnings: Bullying, obsessive/compulsive behaviours, unhealthy attitude towards eating, mention of death of parents.**

Alex was determined to go to school that day, no matter what George and Martha said. He was sick with worry that he'd missed something important. A test, a pop quiz, information he'd need later in the year.

He had been writing all night, at around two in the morning he thought he might have slept for an hour or so on his desk but he wasn't so sure; he'd woken up very soon afterwards.

He got dressed and brushed his teeth, splashing himself with cold water to remove any traces of tears from his face. Alex then turned on the tap and washed his hands for a few minutes, scrubbing roughly at the skin and wincing as he went over blisters from the night before. His knuckles were chapped and pink by the time he'd dried them on the towel.

The sun was low in the sky, the light still pale and tinted blue. It around six in the morning and there wasn't a sound from either his foster parents or Lafayette's room.

He went downstairs and poured himself some coffee, making it extra strong so he could keep his wits about him during the school day. He ran his fingers lightly over the books on the shelf in the living room and pulled out a title that interested him.

Alexander perched on the end of the sofa and read as the sun came up, weary copper light splitting the room in two with its blinding arm. He didn't particularly want to eat that morning, his stomach turned at the thought. He couldn't stop thinking about John, about his angry he had been. This was a way to pay for it. In some strange, messed up sense, he felt better about the situation if he knew he was doing something to make up for it.

He didn't notice Lafayette coming down an hour or so later until the French teenager flopped himself down on the sofa next to Alexander.

"Morning, sleep okay?"

Alex snorted internally.

"Yeah, fine. You?"

Lafayette made to run a hand through his hair but stopped, realising it was braided.

"Alright. That light you kept on all night was annoying. It shone through the crack under my door."

Alex blushed and closed the book, not looking at his foster brother.

"I forget to turn it off sometimes."

"D'accord," said Lafayette, his eyes scanning over Alex.

"Come, eat something."

Alex hesitated for a moment, his face conflicted.

"I've eaten already."

Lafayette raised his eyebrows and sighed, a tiny curl by his ear fluttering slightly.

"You're going to be hungry if you don't eat, Alex."

The teenager laughed, his eyes wary, darting around the room so as to not meet his foster brother's.

"No shit."

Alex picked up the book to avoid continuing the conversation, his eyes scanning the words but not reading them. He listened to Lafayette sigh and walk out of the living room. The distant clatter of cups and the bubble of the kettle met his ears. He could hear an alarm clock beeping upstairs and the distant whispering of clothing and movement.

He slid the book back into the shelf and walked upstairs to his room, shoving books and folders into his bag. He'd written the essays necessary for his history, politics and English classes. There had been worksheets and segments from the textbook to complete in math and science, which he'd done, as well as all the optional work.

He sat on his bed for a while, listening to the hum of conversation and the clink of cutlery downstairs. It was like he was in a totally different world from them. Up here in his bedroom he was removed from the family life they enjoyed. They had their own private jokes and memories, pictures in photo albums, trivia about each other. He didn't. Three months of knowing a family doesn't put you anywhere near the level of closeness the other members had with each other.

He walked to the mirror in the bathroom and pulled at his eye bags. He was one of those people unlucky enough to have slight ones naturally, now however, it was obvious these were environmentally caused.

He pulled at his jumper and grabbed an inch of fabric at either side, seeing what it would look like if it fit him properly.

Alex then looked back at the tap and down at his hands, deciding to wash then once or twice more for good measure.

A few minutes later he heard Lafayette's footsteps on the stairs and dried his hands, picking up his bag a moment matter. He walked out onto the landing and met Laf there.

"Allons-y!"

Alex smiled slightly and followed his foster brother downstairs. He let Martha hug him goodbye, her hair smelt pleasantly like coconut and he found he wasn't uncomfortable when she held the embrace for a few seconds longer than usual.

He broke away from her and stood awkwardly in front of George for a moment, hoping against hope he wouldn't hug him. He could handle Martha, she was shorter even than him, but George. George was a different matter. His foster father did nothing of the sort and instead clapped a strong hand on his shoulder in a way that was firm but simultaneously gentle.

"See you later." He said, a smile tilting the left corner of his mouth upwards.

"Have a good day, work hard." Called George as they walked down the drive.

Alex was suddenly reminded of his mother saying good bye to him on his first day of middle school back in Nevis. He'd spent a year there before he'd moved to America and attended a New York public school.

 _"I'll see you tonight Alex, d'accord?"_

 _Her dark eyes were shining with tears, only bringing out the beautiful mahogany brown he'd inherited in his own._

 _"D'ac!"_

 _"Travaille dur. Don't forget what we say to each other."_

 _"Oui maman, rise up!"_

 _His mother wiped a tear from his own cheek he hadn't even realised had fallen. He grinned and pulled her into a hug, patting her dark hair, a souvenir from her Puerto Rican father. Another feature he'd inherited._

 _"Muy bien, mon canard. Rise_ _up."_

Alex closed his eyes for a moment and took a breath, a small smile on his face.

"What is it?" Lafayette asked, tapping his shoulder lightly.

"I was thinking of my mother. When she used to say goodbye to me before school."

Lafayette smiled at him and looked into the distance.

"I remember mine too sometimes, especially around Martha."

Alex nodded vigorously, Martha was such gentle and caring person it was no wonder they both thought of their own mothers

"What was your mom like?"

Lafayette's face tensed but softened quickly, a small smile creeping back onto his face.

"She used to put lavender in jars for the kitchen and do gardening en printemps. But she was un garçon manqué. I'm not sure what you say in English.

"A tomboy."

"Yes. She used to open the car when it broke down and fix it. My dad didn't have any knowledge of fixings cars. She tried to teach me English but I resisted. I shouldn't have, it would have been useful when I first came here."

Alex nodded gravely. His own english had been patchy when he'd moved, always blurred with Spanish and French. Through sheer force of will he had made it eloquent and native sounding, partly as a way to fit in but also for his love of languages and his desire to write in the way his older peers and favourite authors could.

"How-how did they die?"

He held his breath at this, afraid Lafayette would be angry. He had only asked because he wouldn't have cared if Lafayette had asked him, he felt they were close enough.

"They... they got in un taxi sans licence. It crashed. When I was eleven."

"I'm sorry. I can't imagine..."

Lafayette shrugged and put one hand in his pocket.

"Err, you?"

Alex sighed.

"Technically, I don't know if my dad is dead or alive. He might as well be, he left and I haven't seen him since. My mother, well she got a bad fever, we both did. I pulled through and she didn't."

Lafayette nodded slightly.

"I'm sorry you don't know what happened to your father. I think it's almost worse you don't know..."

Alex's face darkened and he looked up at the sky.

"I don't care. He abandoned us. I'm glad I never have to see him again."

They walked in akward silence for a few minutes before Lafayette turned his head back to Alex, a frown on his face.

"Don't you have a brother?"

Alex's face paled a little but he nodded.

"Yeah."

Lafayette tilted his head slightly and Alex elaborated.

"He... he was adopted before I even left the island for America. He went to the UK. The couple took him on the condition he'd have no 'baggage'. I guess they wanted to feel like he was theirs. So I haven't spoken to him in a few years."

Lafayette drew in a breath.

"So you came here tout seul?"

Alexander nodded.

They walked through the school gates in silence, early enough to avoid most of the large crowds that would flood there in the next fifteen minutes or so.

When they reached the corridor that they would part ways at, Lafayette hugged Alex briefly, squeezing his shoulder tightly.

oo

Alex slumped into his seat at the back of American politics, pulling up his hood as the familiar London RP accents of Lee and George met his ears.

He refused to look in their direction, instead focusing on checking through his essay one final time. He knew it was perfect, this was the third rewrite and he was positive there were no grammar or spelling errors.

He was one of maybe eight or nine students in the room, including Lee and George. The two of them had seats in the middle row, Alex could see the perfectly ironed collar of Charles' expensive jacket and the shaved side of his dark head.

He tapped a nervous beat on his desk and bit at his nail, watching the door for their teacher to arrive and take him out of this anxious limbo.

He knew this wouldn't be enough when Charles Lee spun around on his chair to face Alex, a smile that didn't reach his eyes spread across his face.

"How's Laurens?" He called, smirking slightly and leaning back on his chair. The few people in the classroom turned to watch.

Alex said nothing, trying to drown out the sound of Lee's voice with the scratching of his pen. He was listing the names of everyone he knew. Something to keep him distracted.

"Oh sorry. You probably know him as babe. Or is it Johnny?"

Alex gripped harder on his pen, furious that this guy had just outed him to half his politics class.

"I'm not surprised he doesn't want anything to do with you any more. Tell me, was it the orphan or the poor bit that disgusted him most?"

Alex dropped his pen, listening to the clatter of plastic against the worn wood of his desk.

"Lee. I swear to God, if you don't-"

Charles Lee laughed and stood up, walking nearer to Alex.

"You'll what? Hurt me? Beat me up? Please."

He reached out and grabbed Alex's wrist tightly, touching his thumb and index finger around the bone.

"I can get my fingers around your entire wrist."

He tightened his grip mercilessly and Alex drew in a sharp breath, still not breaking eye contact with his tormentor.

"Go take your anger out somewhere else. I know your rich, privileged life must be _so_ hard but no one here gives a damn."

The students in the glass room 'ooohed', as if this was some sort of game. As if Charles Lee hadn't literally broken one of his ribs before.

The grip around his wrist tightened and his hand was bent back painfully, in a ninety degree angle away from Lee. He hissed but stood his ground, knowing Lee wanted him to move away or crouch down to free his wrist, either one would work but both would let Lee win.

"Did that coke come out okay? I can pay for the dry cleaning if you can't afford it."

Alex glared at Lee and tried to pull his wrist away, tugging his arm down sharply and almost causing the taller boy stumble. Maddeningly though, he stood steady.

Charles' foot suddenly snapped out and kicked Alex hard in the shin, his hard toed sneaker colliding painfully with the bone in Alex's leg. He yelled out in a mixture of surprise and pain, almost expecting it when Lee punched him in the gut and knocked him back into his chair.

Lee had drawn back his fist again when the door of the classroom opened and a tall figure walked into the room, cutting a slim and impressive silhouette in the doorway.

It wasn't their teacher however, no. It was Angelica Schuyler. The tall, intelligent eyed older sister to Eliza.

She strode purposefully towards her desk directly in front of Alex and put down her satchel.

Angelica folded her arms and raised a skilfully pencilled, dark eyebrow at Lee.

"What are you doing?" She aksed, in a voice that Alex thought would suited to a military general. Or Angelica Schuyler, herself. That tone suited her too.

Lee grinned and lowered his fist, eyes still laughing cruelly.

"Nothing. Don't worry your pretty little head about it."

Angelica, if it was possible, raised her eyebrows even higher.

"Let him go Lee. We both know you're an egomaniac. You don't need to hurt people to validity that."

Charles Lee scowled and let Alex's arm drop, precisely as their teacher walked into the class room.

Alex sat up a little higher and rubbed his wrist, scowling. He leant forward and kicked the leg of Angelica's chair.

"Thanks, really, but I can take care of myself."

Angelica smirked and looked over her shoulder.

"Sure, you're ten times smarter than he'll ever be but you're smaller than my freshman sister."

She turned back around leaving Alex frowning, he was actually two inches or so taller than Peggy... He tapped his pen agitatedly against his desk.

Alex passed his essay up to the front and in turn was given back the one he'd handed in last time.

A+

Good. He had to make sure it stayed that way. He clipped it into the folder and read over the teachers comments, there were no criticisms.

Alexander opened his copy book and began taking down the date and notes on the board.

They covered the history of racial politics in America for the first half an hour, Alex found it fascinating. He'd always been intrigued with social issues and since the start of middle school had made it a point to know as much about them as possible.

When the lesson ended, Alex hurried out of his seat and left the classroom as quickly as possible.

He could hear Charles and George's voices behind him, but he didn't care. He picked up his pace slightly and pushed through the doors in the school library. Here there were people, teachers; Lee and George couldn't do anything to him.

He browsed the fiction shelves and scanned through the authors, Montgomery, Moss, Nabokov, Nolan, Ness...

He knew Lee and George were still in the library, he could hear them talking. Their British accents stood out against the hoard of Virginian and east coast voices common in the school. Even his own accent was unusual in this state. A strange combination of New York slang and pronunciation with the added tinge of Spanish American intonations.

He felt his shoulders tense as the voices drew nearer and pulled out a book, pretending to be reading the blurb.

Alexander flinched as he felt a strong tug on the back of his bag and turned around, his eyes furious. Lee had grabbed a fist full of the black canvas material and was holding it in an iron grip.

He glanced around the library and saw the only teacher walking up the spiral staircase to the second floor where students did revision. His heart sank.

Alexander turned back to Lee and attempted to wrench his bag free of the strong hold, feeling horribly claustrophobic trapped between the teenager and the book shelves. The taller boy laughed and pulled the bag off his shoulder. Alex tried to snatch at the strap of his bag but missed, his fist clenching around thin air.

"Lee, stop being such an ass and give me my bag."

Lee smirked. "How fast can you run?"

The teenager spun around with lightening speed, the bag clutched tightly in his hand and sprinted out of the library, George right behind him. He could hear their laughter even from here.

Alex cursed under his breath and looked around to see if anyone had seen. No one had. He slid the book hastily into the shelf and sprinted after Lee, reaching the library door to see Lee disappear at the far end of the corridor.

For once, Alex wasn't at a disadvantage here. One of his few athletic abilities was his speed, maybe it was his height and stature, or the fact that he'd run track in middle school and freshman year. Because though he was exhausted, he was fast. Very fast.

He sprinted down the corridor and burst through the double doors at the end, he could see George and Charles Lee running past the outside gate and into the seniors' courtyard. They weren't allowed in there. _He_ wasn't allowed in there.

He followed them anyway, clenching his fists angrily. That bag had his essays, text books, stationary in it. That bag had his _notebook!_ The one object he'd choose to save from a burning building!

He stopped a few steps away from George and Lee, chest rising and falling slightly from the sprinting but no where near out of breath.

"What the fuck is your problem? Give it back!"

Lee shook his head.

"Nah."

He opened the zip and turned the bag upside down, letting everything inside fall out. His hoodie, textbooks, pencil case, calculator, note book, loose essays. All on the ground.

He stepped forward to grab his possessions off the somewhat muddy floor but was stopped when George pushed him back forcefully and grabbed his arm.

"Let me go Frederick, this is ridiculous."

George kneed him hard in the stomach in response, making Alex double over in pain. Lee had bent down and was picking up things from the ground, turning them over in his hands. He was examining an essay Alex had written for English, to hand in last period.

"Give that back!"

Alex snapped his arm out of George's grip and with the element of surprise, freed himself and stumbled a few steps back from him.

Lee shrugged and tore the essay into four pieces, letting them float to the ground like the tiny white moths that flutter around cool rooms in the summer.

Alex swore and dropped to his knees, grabbing the pieces up from the floor and shoving them into his pocket.

"Oh no! That wasn't important was it?"

George laughed and stepped away from Alex, following Lee as they walked back towards the school.

Alex felt tears of frustration prick at his eyes but he held them there, blurring his vision like frosted glass. He shoved his things back into his bag and stood up, pulling his it back onto his shoulder as the bell went. He'd have to spend the entire lunch hour rewriting that essay.

oo

When last period did come around, he'd managed to redraft the essay just in time, his hand cramped and stiff from clutching the pen so tightly. His head pounded with exhaustion and there was a horrible dry, burning feeling at the back of his throat. The kind you get when you've not sleep in hours. The hollowness and empty feeling in his stomach was more apparent now, aching like he'd been punched there. Well, he had been punched there, but that was besides the point.

He took his usual seat and stared out the window, over the courtyard. It was October yet the golden, late afternoon light still lit everything outside on fire. The leaves on the trees were edged with the glowing, orange colour and long shadows were cast across the asphalt. Then, a large and nebulous Claude Lorrain cloud was blown across the sun and the light faded.

 _'Nothing gold can stay'_ , Alex thought.

He handed in the rewritten essay, despairing over the slightly sloppy and protean handwriting.

He was again given back an essay, one he'd handed in a few lesson ago. Another A+. Good.

He could see Lee smiling over his essay, a bright red A scrawled across the heading. Alex felt a surge of competition flood him but stopped himself at once.

 _What would maman say?_

Alex turned to Elisa who was smiling at an A+ written on her work.

"Man! Nice one!" Alex complimented, not feeling the strange, unusual jealousy he had towards Lee.

Eliza grinned and looked at his own essay, raising her eyebrows and laughing.

"I knew your were crazy smart."

oo

An hour later, the bell rang and Alex stood up.

When he got to his feet he started packing his pens back into his pencil case and sweeping rubber shavings onto the floor.

However, all of a sudden, the strangest thing happened. It was as though everything had doubled and was moving in and out of its self; overlapping and blurring together like the vision through 3D cinema glasses.

Black dots danced in his in front of his eyes for a moment and he blinked, his hand gripping his chair tightly. He stood still for a second, letting the dizziness pass. Next to him, Eliza nudged his arm.

"Alex? Alex, are you okay?"

He nodded, moving to pick up his pencil case gingerly.

"I just stood up too fast. I'm okay."

This was of course, a lie. Alex knew he hadn't slept in roughly 48 hours and hasn't eaten in just slightly less. That was defiantly not good for his energy and health.

Eliza nodded slightly and squeezed his arm.

"Do go to the medical if you a feel weird again."

He nodded and she smiled, hoisting her satchel over her shoulder and leaving the room with a wave.

Alex zipped up his bag and put it over his shoulder. His hand was on the handle of the door when he heard a voice behind him say his name.

"Alexander."

He flinched slightly too noticeably and turned around to face Miss Monroe. She smiled kindly and motioned for him to come nearer, which he did. She was holding out a sheet of paper.

He stopped in front of her desk and peered down at the paper she was showing him.

"It's your results for the past semester."

He nodded slowly, scanning the numbers and figures quickly.

She took a sip of the coffee next to her and pulled open a drawer, tidying away the scattered books on her desk.

"They're excellent Alexander, you're getting top marks in every essay task I set."

He looked at his shoes and shrugged, twisting his hands awkwardly.

"I've talked to a few other teachers and they report the same results."

He looked up, wanting to appear less awkward and locked eyes with a freckle on her cheekbone.

"It's almost unanimously agreed you could be considered for a move up. To eleventh grade classes."

Alex's eyes snapped up immediately and met Miss Monroe's, shocked. She smiled slightly, lip gloss mouth forming a tilted crescent moon.

"It would be after the Christmas break of course. You'd finish out the semester here in grade ten."

He said nothing, his mouth slightly open in surprise.

"Of course, we'd have to review it with the other teachers and talk to your parents."

Alex's face fell a bit.

"Foster parents." He corrected. Miss Monroe smiled.

"I'm sorry, foster parents. So, what so you think?"

Alex considered this for a moment, watching the ring of coffee surrounding her mug leak into a student's essay.

"I'd have to talk to Mr and Mrs Washington, my foster parents. I also don't know how long this placement will be. If I'm to move soon..."

Miss Monroe took off her glasses and folded them into the microfiber cloth.

"Good point, well, if it's possible and convenient for you, I think it's a good idea."

Alex nodded stiffly suddenly feeling a wave of nausea roll over him.

"I'll consider it, Miss. Have a good afternoon."

She grinned and took out a stack of marking.

"You too Alex. I'll see you next lesson. Don't bother going to roll call. I'll email the office."

Alex nodded and pushed the door handle, leaving the classroom. He walked down the corridors, a dizzy feeling of anxiety and exhaustion threatening to overwhelm him.

Alexander walked out the gate and stood in the spot he usually waited for Lafayette. There was a small bench not far off so he sat down and closed his eyes.

All his life he'd been determined to succeed. This fervent obsession with rising above his station only burned brighter when he had arrived in America, the death of his mother and the separation from his brother and home still shaking his very foundation every day.

Foster families had tried to beat and starve the drive out of him, but that only made him more set on educating himself, going to college, working his way up the political and social ladder. Nothing could derail him from his desperate need to build up palaces out of the ashes of his childhood.

He would move up a grade, he'd take the extra work and the long nights and the exhaustion as he pushed himself further and further away from his poverty stricken beginnings. Until then, he would do everything in his power to prove to his teachers that he deserved to move up.

He looked up to see the double doors open on a swarm of students. Among them, he spotted the bouncing head of his foster brother. He stood up and waved at Lafayette, walking towards him.

"Salut! I barely saw you today!"

Alex shrugged, "had a lot going on."

Lafayette grinned and hooked his arm through Alex's, high five-ing people he knew that were strangers to Alex as they walked out the gate. The walk home was quick and silent, thoughts rushing through Alexander's mind in their hundreds.

Alex sped to his room as soon as he got back to the house and set his things out on the desk, ignoring the pounding headache that had been threatening to overwhelm him since lunch.

He could feel his stomach rumbling but he disregarded it, not thinking about the last time he'd eaten, which had been yesterday afternoon.

He pulled out a pen and started on the latest piece of History homework, feeling sure the next time he'd drop the pen that he'd just picked up would be sometime tomorrow morning.

 **Heyy. I think that kind of felt like a filler chapter. I don't know. Please review! I love hearing what you think of my writing! Claude Lorrain was a French painter by the way. He painted nice clouds.**

 **French translations.**

 **Travaille dur: work hard.**

 **Mon canard: my duck.**

 **D'accord/d'ac: okay**

 **Allons-y: let's go**

 **Printemps: spring.**

 **Tout seul: all alone.**

 **Un taxi sans licence: unlicensed taxi.**

 **Thanks Xx**


	19. Chapter 19

**Hello! I have a new beta reader! LamsNotLambs! I'm super excited to continue working with them, I'm not an easy writer to work with so I hope you'll be able to stand me! Thanks so much to everyone who offered to beta read, to anyone who reviewed or followed or favourited and to all the people that are so nice on messaging.**

 **I respond to reviewers without accounts here, if you have an account I'll message you.**

 **Lams Pickles: Aw! I'm sorry, that really sucks. John is... a complicated human. Like most of us. I think in his place I wouldn't be much better tbh. What he's going through sucks. Buut Alex hasn't been dumped... they were technically never together.**

 **Tinybabyleafs: Thanks so much for reviewing! I'm so sorry I hurt you! I guess my aim when writing is to make my readers feel something so I should feel happy about this lol. Yeah, he's like me! I can't say it's one hundred percent healthy though. He does forgo basic human needs like food and sleep just to write. *Also like me.**

 **Tinybabyleafs again: Angst is my speciality! I'm glad I'm able to create tension. I don't know, my trick is to focus on smaller details like the trembling if someone's hand or the shifters chopper sentences they speak in rather than big things. I find it throws reader off balance a bit. This chapter and the next one. Ooooh noooo. Sorry... it's kind funny how I end my chapters so dramatically and my authors note is so casual and playful. It's ironic huh. Thanks for all your reviews seriously, I like reading long ones and you always give me feed back!**

 **Guest09: uhhhhhhhh. Give em time.**

 **Emma: aww, thanks! Yeah, I'm a brit. I get muddled sometimes, though I used 'bandaids' here. The one thing I will not compromise is British spelling. IT IS COLOUR DODDAMNIT!**

 **Trigger warnings: bullying, self destructive behaviour, self denial of sleep and food.**

 ** _Okay, this one is a really long one, the next part will be posted TONIGHT, so watch out for it. I didn't want to keep you waiting too long. It will be out TONIGHT._**

John didn't talk to Alex at all that day. He'd seen him in a few classes, sat next to him in math, listened to him make points in science, but hadn't made any eye contact. He didn't think Alex had even looked at him once. At least while John was watching.

He was waiting at the gate for Hercules after school, having just watched Lafayette walk out the gate with Alexander. Lafayette was still talking to John, hanging out with him too, but there was an awkward subtext to every conversation. John couldn't help but feel that his friend was mad at him.

Herc soon loped out of the building and raised his hand in a wave, grinning at John.

"Hey! I texted my mom, let her know the deal."

John nodded curtly and smiled back after a few beats of hesitation. He hated having to rely on the hospitality of others, he hated the sense of pity he couldn't help detect from everyone who knew about his situation with his dad. To be fair to Hercules, he approached the whole situation with an attitude that could only be described as friendly and compassionate. John didn't get the same feeling of self righteousness and pity from him.

They took the New Kent bus from a stop nearby and made their way further out of the town they went to school in. Hercules didn't live too far out from the school, maybe a twenty-minute bus drive, but it was still further out than John or Lafayette's house.

Eventually, they got out and took the two-minute walk to Hercules' house. The sun was setting a radiant, Klimt gold and traces of clouds were littered across the vast sky. India ink sketched telephone wires and TV aerials across the apricot edged azure.

The neighbourhood was suburban and friendly looking, all hand-painted, white picket fences and basket ball hoops on garage doors.

Pink kneed, laughing kids played ball together in the street and neighbours were barbecuing on their front lawns. Music drifted like a cool breeze from an open window, mixed with the cacophonous sounds of TVs and cutlery scraping plates, John caught the smooth, golden sound of jazz as they passed.

Hercules' house was at the end of the road, near a gate that led down to a regional park, close to York river. John found himself jealous of this small, lively community, thinking of his family's vast, empty house so far removed from their neighbours.

Hercules' house had a large porch over the street where muddy trainers and basketballs had been dumped alongside an old sun chair and a hammock.

Hercules opened the door (it wasn't locked, John noted) and dumped his bag on the hall floor, inviting his friend to do the same.

They walked into the living room and John flung himself onto the couch, relaxing at the familiar and cosy decorations of Hercules' home. School yearbook photos of his many siblings, old drawings done by the younger kids pinned to a cork board by the TV and a warm looking, knitted blanket draped over the sofa.

"I've always liked this area," commented John, picking absent-mindedly at the thread on the blanket.

Hercules shrugged, tapping nimble fingers on the wooden side board.

"Gets noisy some times, we have this one neighbour who won't stop blasting freaking 70's disco all night."

John laughed, wishing he was kept up by loud music at home. His house was so silent at night, it was eerie.

"You don't mind sleeping on the couch for now, do you? Hugh goes back to college soon so if you're still here by then, you can have his room."

John nodded, "It's totally cool. The couch is fine."

Truthfully, he felt better without a proper bed. If they had been too accommodating and hospitable, he would have felt even more awkward.

Hercules helped him connect to their WiFi and get his stuff set up a bit more, lending him a few tee shirts to wear he ran out.

John still felt awful about Alex and the argument he'd had with his father, but somehow, he felt more at home with Hercules than he had in his house for the past four years. He couldn't help but feel at home here. Amusing, that a friend's house he'd only even stayed the night in was instantly more comfortable than the place he'd lived in since he was a baby.

That night he slept better than he had in months, even despite the awful disco music that played from about two AM onwards.

oo

Alex hadn't slept for 72 hours, or three days. He'd kept track, it was now half past six in the morning and he was still slumped over his desk, a pen clutched in his hand and his eyelids drooping shut like a magnetic pull. Every second longer he stayed awake, the more he was tempted to succumb to the lull of sleep.

Next to him was a growing pile of essays he'd written for his humanities classes, stacks of words and sentences building structures on his desk that seemed to grow every day.

To be fair to his teachers, it wasn't the inordinate amount of homework he'd been given or the complexity of the essays required, it was Alexander's sheer determination to succeed and his self-destructing habit to push himself further and further away from the realm of health.

He examined his latest sentence and scribbled it out in frustration. He couldn't quite think of the perfect word. Something exact and specific enough to clarify his intentions yet not so out of place in the essay that it ruined the flow and tone of his writing.

Alex finally found the word he was searching for and wrote the sentence out again, smiling slightly to himself when he added a full stop, bringing the essay to its culmination.

He looked at his watch and groaned, wondering how he was going to make it through the next school day.

The sky outside was bright, filling Alex with a sense of dread. He couldn't fight the rising sun, only lie helpless as it dragged him into another day of a life he'd grown sick of. The sameness and isolation of his existence crushing him at every available moment, like a beetle under a traveller's boot.

Even his writing was becoming less and less of a distraction from the intrusive thoughts that struggled inside his head. Some of these thoughts were heard in the voices of Lee or George, but some, even more disturbingly, were the words of John, or in the French accented tone of Lafayette.

He pressed his palms into his eyes and took thirteen deep breaths, for luck. It was strange, the American fear of the number thirteen. In most parts of the world, it was considered a lucky number.

Alex stood up and tugged off his pyjamas, stepping into the shower and turning the water all the way up. It burned his skin like red fire ants were crawling all over his body, the steam rising around him like fog.

He closed his eyes and yawned loudly, stretching his arms in the shower and rolling his shoulders. He knew he'd need a lot of coffee to keep himself awake and it was looking more and more likely that actual sleep would be necessary the coming night.

He dressed quickly, tying his wet hair into a bun and packing his school bag, his hands fumbling on the zip for a moment, uncoordinated and awkward due to the nebulous blur of sleep deprivation clouding his vision.

He heard the familiar alarm on Lafayette's phone go off in the next room and the usual groaning and slow, clumsy movements that followed.

He put his bag on his chair and walked downstairs, pulling an empty bowl from the cupboard and setting it in front of him at the table, along with a mug of coffee. To Martha, George, and Lafayette, it would look like he'd eaten something.

His foster brother was first to come down, he'd taken down the twists he'd gotten Martha to do for him and done his usual ponytail, only with two braids leading into it.

"Salut, t'as bien dormi?"

 _Hi, sleep well?_

Alex nodded, his throat tightening painfully and his hands shaking.

"Tu as les cernés sous tes yeux."

 _You have bags underneath your eyes._

Lafayette's gaze was concerned and apprehensive, his eyebrows were raised in an attempt of amused scepticism, but there was nothing funny about the situation.

Alex feigned a small laugh.

"I've always had these. Je pense que ils sont héréditaire."

 _I think they're hereditary._

His foster brother frowned, taking a sip of Alex's coffee.

"Well, If- CHRIST! C'est vraiment amer!"

 _It's so bitter!_

Lafayette swallowed with a grimace and gaped at Alex.

"How can you drink that, it tastes comme 'cyanure'!"

 _Like cyanide._

Alex grinned and shrugged, taking a purposefully long gulp of the drink.

"And, more importantly, why do you need coffee that strong unless you are very tired?"

Alex put down the coffee and looked out the window, refusing to make eye contact with Lafayette. He was right, Alex usually took his coffee with three teaspoons of the granules, this one had five.

"I've-I've always t-taken my coffee like this. I guess I've built up a tolerance."

He ended this sentence with a half hearted smile and took another draught out of the mug, staring into the dark coffee rather than looking at his foster brother.

"If you can't sleep, just knock at my room. We can play video games or something."

Alex nodded into his cup, knowing he'd probably not take Lafayette up on this offer, even on nights when he stayed up because he couldn't sleep rather than him being busy writing.

Martha came down then, wrapped in a dressing gown, her hair still held back in the wrap she put it in overnight.

"Morning Alex, Gil."

She smiled sleepily and walked to the kettle, pouring herself some coffee. Alex looked at Lafayette pointedly, then decided to be honest. In French. So Martha wouldn't understand.

"Ça va bien, Laf. Juste, ne lui dit pas. Elle va s'inquiéter."

 _I'm fine, Laf, just don't tell her. She'll worry._

Laf furrowed his brows and sat back in his chair, arms folded and a conflicted expression on his face.

"What are you two chatting about? I heard you from upstairs, speaking French."

She was grinning good naturedly, assuming it would be something trivial like school or tv.

"Just about what we think will happen to a character on a show we're watching."

Alex lied smoothly, taking a sip of his coffee with a false smile on his face. Lafayette raised his eyebrows surreptitiously, saying nothing but planning out what he was going to say to his friend when they were alone.

Martha grinned and walked down the driveway to collect the paper, bringing it upstairs to George a moment later.

Lafayette finished the last of his breakfast and cleared up, rinsing out his and Alex's bowl (which he assumed had been used) and pouring himself a glass of water.

"When did you last sleep?"

"I slept a little last night..." Alex lied. He was definitely not going to tell Lafayette that he hadn't slept (or eaten, for that matter) in three days.

Lafayette sighed and shook his head.

"You are going to sleep tonight if it takes ten elephant tranquilizers to take you down."

Alex smiled slightly and stood up.

"I'm going to get my bag."

He made his way up the stairs slowly, his legs not moving in the automatic, assured way he was used to. Instead, they were faltering and slow, like he was moving gingerly along a thin wall. He dismissed this, putting it down to lack of sleep he'd gotten in the last few days; a problem he could easily fix soon enough.

Alex walked to school with Lafayette, as usual, his eyes fixed ahead of him, using every fibre of his being to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other.

Lafayette was doing something on his phone as they walked, so he had no problem moving slowly and didn't seem notice Alexander's exhaustion.

Alex found himself thinking of things to distract himself from his fatigue. He thought of the colour the sun was making as it filtered the leaves on that tree over there, he tried focusing on the cracks in the pavement and the leaves that made a dark carpet beneath them.

They had all turned various shades of brown, warm terracotta like the rooves in an Italian village. A rich, alluring burgundy like the inside of a blackberry and dark chestnut like the undertones in John's skin. John...

This thought made Alex wide awake, the horrible, aching guilt he'd been too exhausted to relive flooding through him again. He hadn't spoken to John in four days. Had it really been four days? It felt more like four centuries.

He turned to Lafayette who was still texting someone and clutched the straps of his bag tighter.

"How is... How is John?" Alex asked tentatively, holding his breath and looking up at the sky.

He heard the sound of tapping on Lafayette's phone cease and they slowed down a little.

"Why don't you talk to him?"

Alex turned his head to the opposite side of the road, away from his foster brother.

"Because, because-" his voice broke slightly but he continued anyway, "because he won't want to talk to me."

Lafayette's face fell and he put his phone into his pocket, moving closer to Alex putting a hand on his shoulder as they walked.

"Alex, John doesn't hate you, or dislike you. The opposite! You're both just stubborn. You need to talk to him."

Alex shook his head, stopping immediately because he was getting dizzy.

"He's practically been kicked out. Now isn't a good time."

Alexander's foster brother sighed and shook his head.

"The longer that you leave a bandaid on, the more it hurts when you rip it off."

He let this out in one breath, as though he'd had the expression saved in his mind for a while. He looked rather pleased with himself.

Alex grinned at this, "Where'd you get that one?"

Lafayette laughed and looked slightly sheepish.

"AQA English textbook, chapter 12."

Alex smiled to himself, an image in his mind of Lafayette when he first arrived to America, learning all the swear words and trying to pronounce American slang. He knew he'd been the same.

They arrived at school a short time later and Alex went to his homeroom, his mind ever so slightly reassured by Lafayette's words but too clouded by drowsiness to properly think them over and stop him from succumbing to his feelings of hopelessness.

His time table that day was not very convenient. Out of his five classes, three he had with Lee and George. The one he was going to now, English, being the first.

He slid into his seat next to Eliza and pulled out the essay he'd finished the night (well, morning) before.

"Damn, Alex, wasn't it supposed to be like two thousand words?"

Elisa was holding out her own essay, neat, cursive writing filling around a page and a half.

He looked down at his own, his usually long, looping scrawl was pointier and more frantic, covering at least four pages.

Alex shrugged and looked away, arranging his pens in a neat line and straightening the text books on his desk.

Eliza shook her head exasperated, grinning and pulled out her phone. She opening it and began tapping on the screen, smiling occasionally when Alex assumed she had received a text.

He opened his English book and read over the work he'd done in the past few lessons, occasionally scribbling out words and rewriting sentences, he almost wished he had a phone to text someone on or play an app. It was pretty awkward when everyone in the room was laughing at some meme or YouTube video and he was sat in the corner writing something.

He kept his head down, firmly staring at his textbook like it was the most fascinating thing in the world when he heard Lee and George enter the room. Eliza next to him sighed quietly and he saw her glare in the direction he assumed they were in.

Alex chanced a look in their direction and caught Lee's eye. God how he hated those eyes, that face, that person...

He was struck by an almost self-destructive and reckless attitude, rolling his eyes exaggeratedly at Lee and looking back down at his book, a small smile on his face.

He could picture Lee's eyes, dangerously narrowed and steely, dark eyebrows raised high.

He didn't care, he was sick of these assholes.

He could hear someone's footsteps coming nearer to his desk and he tensed up slightly, shoulders stiffening. A second later though, he heard Lee's voice on the other side of the room and the familiar hush fell over the class that indicated Miss Monroe had entered the class room. He was safe for now.

Miss Monroe smiled at him as she took a seat at her desk, which he returned hesitantly. She collected in their essays, grinning slightly when she took in Alexander's unnecessarily long piece of writing.

"How do you have time to write like this?" She exclaimed, leaning into Alex desk and smiling slightly.

Alex shrugged, feeling the class watching him with interest. He glared around at some of them and sat back in his chair, turning a pen over in his hands.

Miss Monroe started the class, as usual, they read some of the Kite Runner, the class had nearly reached the third part.

Alex couldn't help but steal glances at Lee throughout the lesson, watching his face to find any acknowledgment of anger at Alex.

After English class, Miss Monroe called Alex back again, this time to ask if he'd thought the offer over.

"I-I haven't managed to ask them about it yet- Mr. and Mrs. Washington I mean."

He tugged the strap of his bag tighter around his shoulder and shifted on his feet slightly. His headache was squeezing at his skull now, like the pressure around it was building and building.

"That's okay- oh, and Alex, you should be sleeping at night, not writing essays."

He opened his mouth slightly in shock, his silence said everything.

"You look tired, that's all. Get some sleep tonight."

He nodded dumbly and smiled slightly, leaving the classroom with a quiet 'good morning'.

He was a few minutes late to his politics class, sliding into his seat as silently and discretely as possible.

He pulled out his textbooks quickly and noted down the date and heading, looking anxiously at the book of the person next to him, just to make sure he hadn't missed anything.

"Mr. Hamilton, so nice of you to join us."

His politics teacher had paused, about to write something on the board.

Alex allowed himself a discreet eye roll and put on his most polite, passive aggressive voice be could.

"I'm very sorry sir, Miss Monroe asked me to stay behind for a few minutes. You can e-mail her if you don't believe me, I'm sure she'd be happy to confirm."

Alex finished this with a small smile and picked up his pen again, attentively noting down the information on the board.

His politics teacher frowned slightly but nodded and turned back to the board, writing another detail about the American Senate on the board.

Alex figured that his work ethic and the fact he always got straight A's saved him from being told off here.

He could feel his eyes drooping shut when they turned off the light play a film, the pain in his head was even more oppressive now and he felt weak and shiver-y. Like the feverish feeling you get after being sick.

He bounced his leg up and down, hoping the action would keep him alert and awake. He pinched the skin on his hand at the same time and tried to focus on the screen, doing his best to remember the names of the longest serving senators in America.

He managed to pull through Politics, his left hand pinching his right forearm for the duration of the lesson. The bell for break sounded and he jumped, prompting a few of his classmates to shoot funny looks at him.

Lee and George were laughing and talking to each other in the front row and Alex wondered if they had always been like this.

Was it Lee who turned George to what he was or vice versa, or had they both been like this for their entire lives?

Sometimes it seemed that George was unwilling to hurt Alex too badly. He was clearly more intelligent than his friend often, when Alex was super beat up, George would appear slightly more hesitant to hold him while Lee punched.

Then again, if the there was anything Alexander hated, it was people who didn't do what they knew was right. If George was willing to follow Lee on his every whim, Alex hated him even more.

He headed to the library, hoping he could catch twenty minutes of sleep in a secluded spot of the revision section, the tables were split into four sections and were relatively private.

He walked down the deserted politics corridor and listened to his grubby Chuck Taylors' rubber soles squeak against the linoleum. He opened the door at the end of the corridor and stopped suddenly, catching sight of Charles and George about fifteen feet away from him, next to the staircase that lead down into the maths and science classrooms.

He tried to back out of the corridor before they saw him but it was too late, George had spotted him and his momentary silence had caused Lee to look over as well.

"Alexander. What was with the eye roll earlier?"

Alex shrugged and moved to walk past Lee, purposefully knocking his sharp shoulder bone into the black haired boy.

George grabbed him and pushed him up against the wall of the last politics class room in the corridor, his back colliding painfully with the edge of a display board.

"Ouch," Alex said sarcastically, his shoulders straining uselessly against George's hands.

Lee grinned from behind George's shoulder and pushed closer, using one hand to replace George's strong grip and pin Alex to the wall himself. George stepped back gladly, taking his usual position as Lookout a few paces behind his friend.

Alex rolled his eyes again and once again disregarded any shred of self-preservation he had left.

"Do you have this confident, asshole persona to disguise the fact you're actually just a bitter, boring person?"

Lee laughed coolly.

"Creative. I'll give you that, it's just less impressive when you're, like, five foot two and pinned to a wall."

Alex scowled and tried again to shove Lee off, to no effect.

"I'm five foot six, let me go or I'll hit you."

Lee laughed and tightened his grip.

"You're too short. You couldn't."

"You've sunk low enough to reach my level."

Lee laughed again and Alex felt a sudden, burning desire to punch that stupid smirk off his face. He jerked his shoulder free for a moment and swung at Lee. The punch didn't quite land because Lee had pulled him back at the last second, but his bony elbow came around and hit Lee's nose hard, causing him to cry out in pain.

"Mother fu-"

Alex cut him off with a sharp laugh, his elbow and shoulder throbbing but his heart racing with adrenaline.

Lee pulled his fist back and swung it forwards. Before Alex even had time to register the sudden movement, he had been punched his square in the face, the fist hitting his left eye and the side of his nose with a horrible finality.

Alex yelled and clutched his nose, which was now gushing blood. He opened his eyes for a moment to see Charles in a similar state, crimson splattered below his own sharp, defined nose.

George had pulled Lee off him and was tugging him back from Alex, glaring at the shorter boy.

Alex wiped his nose the best he could, staining the back of his hand with a thick streak of dark blood.

"Aww, a tenth of what he does to me he can't handle."

George snarled and drew his fist back to punch Alex in the stomach. The blow landed painfully, causing Alex to double over, gasping. He lashed out and his foot caught George's shin hard, causing the blonde teenager to grab his leg in pain.

Alex took the opportunity to knee George hard in the chest, causing him to stumble back, having to grab Lee by the arm to keep his balance.

Lee glared at Alex and started forwards, eyes full of rage. George however, held him back.

"He's not worth it Charles, let's just go."

Lee wrenched his arm out of his friend's grip and reached forwards, grabbing Alex by the hair.

"You'll regret this Hamilton. Just you wait."

With a sharp tug, he brought Alex's head back and slammed it into the wall before letting him go, turning on his heel to walk with George down the stairs.

Alex rubbed the back of his head and winced, feeling dizzy. Everything seemed to be blurring in and out of focus, whether it was because of the injury, his lack of sleep and food or a combination of the two, he didn't know.

Alex headed to the nearest men's room, stumbling and disoriented. As though he wasn't sure there'd always be ground below him to walk on.

He pushed into the bathroom and cursed at his reflection, his under eye circles huge and his nose bloody.

Alexander grabbed a wad of tissue and wet it, dabbing at the blood underneath his nose. His head was throbbing even worse now and his eyes were having trouble focusing, objects blurring in and out of relief like a broken camera.

He cleaned the blood off his nose and washed his face with cold water, hoping to wake himself up a little. Sadly, he thought he was past the point were anything but sleep would help him.

The bell for third period (maths) went off and registered dimly somewhere in his mind, as though it was ringing through several layers of wool.

He redid his hair with clumsy fingers and walked out of the bathroom, limp hands clutching weakly to the straps of his bag.

He walked down the flight of stairs to the maths building, the throng of people around him causing his hands to shake and his breathing to quicken. He felt feverish, sick; like he was only half there but at the same time feeling very single sensation against him, as though they had been magnified by ten.

The brush of a shoulder against his arm made the hair on the back of his neck stand up, the sensation of someone's shoe stepping on his giving him goosebumps. Everything was too loud and bright and noisy! He just wanted quiet, his head hurt so much...

Eventually, he stumbled into his maths classroom and all but collapsed into his desk, his head spinning. He could hear Lafayette's excited voice behind him and the familiar grinning tones of John. They were obviously talking about something together, like they usually did with him. But this time, he wasn't necessary to their conversation. He was left at his desk, forgotten.

Their teacher walked in and began the class, his voice loud and booming, making Alex's head ache even more painfully. His eyes were struggling to remain open and he was having trouble listening and staying awake at the same time, he seemed at the moment to be only capable of one. Obviously, his body chose the option that was needed to keep him alive.

"Hamilton!"

He was brought back to attention by the voice of his teacher calling his name sharply from the front.

"Since you find the lesson so easy that you can fall asleep, why don't you come up and do the question on the board?"

Alex stared at his teacher, no recognition or understanding in his face, his head spinning and his heart pounding. The numbers on the board were blurry and complicated. Was that a seven or a one? He couldn't tell what was a plus sign or a times, everything was too out of focus.

He got up on shaky legs, bright white lights pulsing in his vision. This was a bad idea, he couldn't walk; he was going to fall!

He took a tentative step towards the front of the classroom on shaky legs. He tried to raise his arm to take the pen the teacher was holding out to him but his arm was too heavy and his joints too tired. He felt a sharp stab of pain in the back of his head and suddenly bright lights were flashing in front of his eyes.

Then, his legs buckled and air was rushing around him. His vision had gone a dizzying white, similar to a vignette picture; blurred at the edges like a fraying blanket.

He was becoming more familiar with his eyelids, then, darkness.


	20. Chapter 20

**Hey! Second half of last chapter! Make sure you've read the last chapter I posted this morning, otherwise this won't make sense. Obviously.**

 **Anyways, I'll respond to any reviews next chapter. Thanks for reading!**

 **Trigger warnings: fainting, concussion, hospitals, parent- child argument, self harm.**

There were sounds first, a high pitch frequency ringing in his ears, the kind you only notice in silence so oppressive your brain searches for something to fill the space. Next was the feeling of blood pumping in his ears, he could hear it and feel it, hot and alive and frantic. Then colours as he opened his eyes. Blurred greys and nebulous blues that followed his vision and didn't stay in one place.

A minutes later he became aware of voices murmuring around him and the sound of hurried footsteps outside in the corridor. He was still on the floor of his maths classroom, his legs bent awkwardly against the legs of a desk. The warm linoleum floor pressed uncomfortably against his cheek. He could feel the presence of people around him, particularly someone kneeling very close to his head.

Alexander twitched slightly and rolled over, not trusting himself to be able to stand. He looked up and blinked a few times, confused as to why he was on the floor.

He let out a groan and rubbed his eyes, confused.

He blinked again and a face above him came into focus, Lafayette. His foster brother's eyes were wide and concerned, the skin around them creased with worry and confusion.

"Alex, ça va bien? Qu'est qui s'est passé?"

 _Alex, are you okay? What happened?_

He groaned and pressed a hand to his forehead, pressing down hard. Nothing was making sense, words were muddled and mixed up in his head. He couldn't put his finger on the right ones.

"Je ne-Je ne sais pas... ¿Qué pasó? ¿Dónde estoy?"

 _I don't- I don't know. What happened? Where am I?_

Lafayette's brows furrowed and he shook Alex slightly by the shoulders, his hands restraining and tight. Familiar panic gripped Alexander, causing the teenager to groan and try to squirm away.

"A-arrête!"

 _Stop!_

Lafayette let go if his shoulders, his head still above Alex, a curly strand of hair hanging down above his face,

Alex couldn't sort through the words flooding through his mind. He couldn't conjure up the right English words to say, and the French ones were escaping him too.

"Laf, nous..." He struggled to remember the word. It was the verb être, he was sure of it...

"nous sommes à l'ècole?"

 _Laf, are we at school?_

Lafayette's face relaxed at the familiar language, "oui, le cours de maths."

 _Yeah, maths class._

Alex was still confused, his head was spinning. Why was he on the floor, why was his nose bleeding?

"Me duele la cabeza, ¿Qué pasó?"

 _My head hurts, what happened?_

Lafayette glanced hopelessly around at some of the other people in the room and Alex groaned again, his head hurt so much...

A boy, around their age knelt down next to Alex, who tried to sit up but was pushed back down by Lafayette's firm hand.

The boy bore a striking resemblance to Hercules, in fact, if it wasn't for the admittedly substantial height difference and the slight variances in nose and face shape, he wouldn't have been able to tell them apart. He had his hair short, like Hercules, but hadn't the bandana wrapped around his forehead that Hercules often wore. He spoke to Alex, but not in English like Alex expected; he spoke Spanish instead.

"Te desmayaste, está bien. El profesor llamaste tu padre."

 _You fainted, it's okay. The teacher called your dad._

He spoke Spanish with a southern accent, it was almost amusing, the way he dragged out the 'aa' sound in padre and didn't roll his 'r' made the sentence sound very American indeed.

Alex frowned, this didn't make any sense. He was trying to picture what had happened in his mind but he could only get bits of it.

He sat up again, pushing Laf off when he tried to get him to lie back down. He caught John's eye, who was leant against a desk above him, a shocked and concerned expression on his face.

"You got up to do a question on the board and just passed out."

Alex rubbed his forehead and closes his eyes. He could remember Lee shoving his head against the wall and coming into maths class, but after that was foggy.

He closed his eyes and leant his head back against the leg of his chair, not wanting to make eye contact with any of the students staring at him. He could hear Lafayette admonishing them, telling them to sit back in their seats. When Alex opened his eyes only Lafayette, John and the southern boy were still in front of him.

He smiled weakly at Lafayette, trying to reassure the boy he was at least slightly okay.

He ran his eyes over the southern boy again. He knew he had seen him before, he recognised his face but couldn't quite match it to a name.

"¿C-cómo se llama?"

The boy started slightly at being addressed but smiled anyway, holding out his hand for Alex to shake. Alexander was surprised by this rather formal gesture. It was actually the kind of thing he himself would do.

"James Madison."

He knew that name. Perhaps from English or French class? He didn't know. Alexander closed his eyes again as a sudden pain tore through his head. He felt Lafayette next to him stiffen.

"Je suis desolé. Est-ce que George..."

He couldn't remember the right word in french, it was slipping from his mind like quicksilver. He felt his eyes prick with frustrated tears and clenched his fist slightly. He felt so stupid for not being able to remember such a simple phrase.

"...venir?"

 _I'm sorry. Is George...to come?_

He knew this was wrong, but couldn't be bothered to try and correct himself.

Lafayette noticed this was wrong immediately but said nothing, despite the grammatical inaccuracy.

Lafayette nodded, "I can come with you if you'd like."

Alex tried to consider this but his head was still fuzzy and confused, so he shrugged instead.

Lafayette glanced back at John who shrugged himself.

"You can go. I'll hang with Herc."

Alex was about to say something to John, an apology, a greeting, he didn't know. Something that would make the expression in John's eyes closer to forgiveness than pity.

But then, be fire he could summon the right words, the door opened and their maths teacher stepped in, George behind him wrapped in a long, grey overcoat. His face was anxious and from the floor, he looked even taller and more imposing. Alex braced his hands against the linoleum and tried to push himself to his feet, finally managing this task with the help of Lafayette and John, who took hold of his arms and hauled him up.

Alex tried to open his mouth and say something, an apology, an explanation, anything; but the words in his head were muddled and flying around, moving nearer and nearer to where he could reach them before being snatched away and evading him, like a dog trying to chase the tide.

"Je-je suis desolé."

He managed, the English in his mind fuzzy. Of course, he knew how to say sorry in George's language but the words were heavy on his tongue and thick in his throat, too unfamiliar and strange to get out properly.

George's eyes creased in confusion and he took Alex's arm gently, bringing him and Lafayette out into the corridor.

"Je suis évanoui, je suis desolé."

 _I fainted, I'm sorry_

He didn't know why he was telling George what had happened, when he already knew, much less in a language he didn't understand.

George was just nodding, he could understand the apologies well enough but had no idea why his foster son was speaking french. He was reminded all too well of Lafayette when he had first come to their home.

He led Alex down the corridor, his foster son's face was confused and anxious, George noticed there were streaks of blood directly under his nose.

Lafayette was saying quiet things to him in french, his voice low and reassuring. Alex seemed to be trying to take everything in, nodding his head rapidly and blinking often, looking around at his surroundings. Almost as though he was trying to make sense of the situation.

"I think he has a concussion, but I'm not sure." Lafayette murmured, leaning closer to George's ear. His dark eyes were narrowed with what looked like a mix of suspicious anger and bewilderment.

George rubbed his jaw and nodded. They walked slowly through the main office and George stopped for a moment by the battered wooden desk, signing his name quickly at the end of a register to prove he'd taken Lafayette and Alex from school.

He had a brief discussion with the bored looking, young receptionist about the situation while Lafayette went into the nearby staff room and bought Alex a bottle of water from the musty looking vending machine that must have been there since the nineties.

George put up his aegean blue umbrella and they walked out into the small school parking lot, Alex shivering and closing his eyes against the rain. His hair was bedraggled and his face pale. George mentally hit himself for not doing more for the boy, he'd been looking ill and fatigued all week. Why had it taken him fainting for them to do something?

They got to the car, parked in a space near the gates to the main road. George gently placed a hand on his foster son's back, carefully helping Alex into the car and letting Laf get into the passenger seat. Alex was quiet in the back, through the mirror above the windshield, George could see he had a hand pressed to the back of his head and was rubbing it, a pained expression on his face.

"I-I don't really know what..." He searched for the right word. "...What happened. I'm s-sorry you had to leave work."

George was just glad he was speaking English, he shook his head. He put the car into first gear and backed out of the space, accelerating and starting onto the main road.

"It's okay Alex, Martha was going to come but I volunteered, does your head hurt?"

Lafayette twisted around to look at Alex, who nodded.

"Yeah, it does."

George took a turn in the opposite direction, away from the house and towards the local emergency room. The trees were shedding their leaves now, the remaining green cloaks shrouding them however were lush and heavy with raindrops, dancing excitedly against the pressure of the rain and wind.

"Where are we going? Are we going to the hospital?"

George nodded.

"Why did you pass out? What happened?"

Lafayette had twisted around to look at Alex, long legs stretched out in front of him and more out if his seat than in it, looking behind him at Alex.

Alex rubbed his face and closes his eyes. He just wanted to sleep.

"J'ai fatigué. Je _suis_ fatigue _."_

 _I was tired. I am_ _tired._

Lafayette's eyes narrowed and he glared, exasperated at Alex, speaking rapidly in french to him, of which George could only pick out bits.

 _"I said you looked tired! You didn't listen! You told me not to tell Martha! Christ Alexandre, you need to take care of yourself! You don't eat, you don't sleep, you aren't invincible, sooner or later you get ill!"_

Alex said nothing, he rested his head against the glass of the car window and closed his eyes, taking deep breaths. What had happened was coming back and the words in his head were slowing down, not dancing and spinning as fast as before. He just wanted to sleep. He was so, so tired.

Lafayette was staring straight ahead at the road, his teeth grit together tightly.

George looked at his foster son of five years and frowned, disapproving of his sharp attitude towards his brother. He shot him a stern look and turned to glance at Alex in the back seat.

"Did you hit your head?"

Alex opened his eyes slightly, his eyelids heavy and his eyes glazed over, he looked exhausted.

He shrugged and closed his eyes again, leaning back against the window and sighing slightly. Lafayette looked aggrieved and threw out his hands in an most laughably French, expressive gesture.

"Un haussement d'épaules! Qu'est-ce que cela peut bien vouloir dire?"

 _A shrug! What the hell does that mean?_

George knew he always spoke in french when emotional... George also knew that the only emotion at play wasn't just anger.

Alex opened his eyes slightly wider and took his head off the window. His expression was still one of dissociation and weariness.

"Charles Lee punched me in the face and banged my head. Mais, nous nous sommes battus. C'etait une bagarre. He didn't just beat me up."

George looked at Lafayette, his eyes wide, who translated.

"He said he got in a fight."

George wasn't sure if he totally believed this. He knew that Alex would have no problem with defending himself physically and would probably taunt and insult a tormentor too, but he wasn't sure if he'd willingly enter into a fist fight.

Alex had closed his eyes again and seemed properly asleep this time, which was shame. They were about two minutes away from the emergency room.

George parked the car and he and Lafayette got out, the latter opening the back door and gently waking his foster brother up.

Alex got up, waving off his foster brother's attempts to help him and walking slightly unsteadily, albeit determinedly alongside George and Lafayette.

The waiting room, mercifully, was almost empty. It was a Wednesday afternoon in suburban Virginia, that wasn't exactly a recipe for accidents and emergencies.

Alex sat in a chair next to Lafayette, his head pressed against the boy's shoulder and taking deep breaths.

"Are you alright? Do you need anything?" Asked George, his thick eyebrows creased.

Alex shook his head, "No. I'm alright, I- I just don't like hospitals."

His voice came out muffled, his face still buried in his brother's shoulder.

A haggard looking nurse came out a minute later, dark circles under his eyes like Alex and his hair dishevelled.

"I'm nurse Bradner. You can come into the examination room now."

Lafayette stood up and made to go with Alex, his hand wrapped protectively around his shoulder.

"Only parents or guardians are allowed in the room with minors."

The man added that last phrase, looking Lafayette up and down. The French boy looked outraged and spun around to his father, hands thrown out in the air.

"Mais, papa! S'il te plaît!"

 _But dad! Please!_

George shook his head and took off his coat, draping it across the chair next to Alex's bag.

"You heard the nurse, call your mother and tell her what's happening."

He dug around in his pocket and pulled out a ten dollar note.

"Buy something if you get hungry and we're still in there, I saw a few vending machines and a coffee stand back there."

Lafayette took the money grudgingly and put it in the pocket of his expensive black jeans.

Alex perked up at the mention of coffee.

"Laf, can you get me a coffee if you find a place?"

The nurse held out his hand and shook his head. He bent down and looked at Alex for a few moments, examining his face and stature. He tilted his chin up with two fingers and felt his pulse. Alex shifted uncomfortably and glared at the man.

"You're sleep deprived and possibly concussed. You shouldn't consume any caffeine."

George nodded seriously and shot a pointed look at Lafayette. Alex scowled at the nurse.

"Says you..."

He murmured under his breath, eyeing Nurse Brandner's dark under eye circles.

The nurse rolled his eyes and grinned slightly, straightening up and motioning for George and Alex to follow him.

The exam took less than twenty minutes. Alex had been tested for concussions before, many times. They did all the usual tests, following a light with his eyes, catching a ruler dropped in front of him.

Apparently the concussion was mild but combined with his state of sleep deprivation and malnutrition had caused him to faint.

"Studying a little too hard huh?" The nurse asked, adjusting the strap around Alex's bicep to measure his blood pressure.

Alex rolled his eyes, irritated. He just wanted to get some goddamn sleep.

"This is unnecessary," he motioned to the blood pressure reading.

"You know what's wrong, can I just go home?"

George looked at the nurse apologetically and sent Alex a sharp look.

"Alexander, think who you're talking to."

Alex sighed again and tilted his head to the ceiling as though bored.

"Of course, nurse Bradner, the mTBI to my occipital lobe has been identified and diagnosed, I find the rest of this process unnecessary."

George stared at Alex in shock, his eyes stern and surprised.

"Alexander!"

Nurse Bradner let out a loud laugh and threw his head back, taking the arm band off Alex.

"It's alright. Symptoms of a concussion include irritability. Really did study too hard huh?"

Alex looked away and shook his arm free, folding it across his chest. He leant against the back of his chair and closed his eyes, vaguely listening as the nurse talked to George about recovery. He'd heard all this before anyway.

Lafayette was lying across three chairs in the waiting room, tapping at his phone with a coffee next to his hand on the table.

"Gil, let's go."

The French teen sat up and scrambled to grab his things, hoisting his as well as Alex's bag onto his back. George put on his coat and took out his car keys, striding towards the automatic doors.

Alex sighed and rubbed the back if his head, wincing.

"Il est fou. I was rude to the nurse."

 _He's mad._

Lafayette waved his hand.

"I'm sure he's not, he looks more worried than anything."

This of course, did little to cheer Alexander up. He fell asleep in the back of the car, comforted by the soft purr of the engine and the warmth of Lafayette's shoulder.

The drive was quick, they pulled into the driveway of the house at around one and George got out of the car, unlocking the front door with steady hand.

George hung up his coat on the hook and walked to the kitchen, opening the fridge for some milk to make tea.

They were out. He sighed and called over his shoulder to Lafayette.

"Gilbert! We're out of milk! Do you want to cycle to the store? It's stopped raining."

Gilbert walked through the kitchen door, his expression annoyed.

"Why does it have to be me?"

George raised a dark eyebrow, "do you want Alex to go?"

"You could!"

"I have to stay here with Alex."

Lafayette rolled his eyes and grabbed the garage keys, where he kept his bike.

"Fine. I'll use the money you gave me. Semi skimmed, two percent or whole?"

George took out two mugs.

"Semi skimmed."

Lafayette nodded and went out to the garage. George faintly heard the clicking of a bike wheel and the test ring of a bell. A minute later the smooth sound of rubber tire was gliding past the driveway.

He walked into the living room where Alex was curled up on the sofa, pulling off his coat.

"We need to have a conversation."

Alex looked up at George, surprised and clearly sleepy, but nodded.

"When was the last time you slept properly?"

Alex hung his head and didn't answer immediately.

"Uh- a little while."

George sighed and sat down next to Alex, putting a hand on his shoulder.

"Why do you need to study all night? Your grades are excellent."

Alex's eyes shone for a second at this praise and he looked at George eagerly.

"I've been meaning to tell you! My teachers want to move me to eleventh garde."

George frowned and Alex looked slightly disheartened, his face falling slightly.

"I'm-I'm getting straight A's..."

George shook his head, "I don't doubt the fact that you're extremely intelligent, but I'm concerned. I'm not sure if that's the best idea."

Alex straightened up slightly and stared at his foster father, his expression one of upmost shock.

"What?"

George rubbed his jaw, feeling the stubbly five o'clock shadow beneath his fingers.

"You don't... you haven't slept in days, haven't eaten in longer and you're only in grade ten. Who knows how bad this could get with the added stress of being moved up a year."

Alex hesitated for a moment, his eyes furious and his chin trembling.

"Every single night I didn't sleep these past weeks I was writing my way into junior year, and you're telling me you won't let me?"

George sighed, he'd known this talk would be difficult.

"Alex, with the place you're at right now, I'm not sure if this is the best idea, I'd have to talk to Martha but I think she'd probably feel the same way."

Alex stood up, his fists clenched and his shoulders tense.

"I've worked so godamn hard for this, it's the only thing I've wanted for months!"

George stood up himself now, calmer and more composed than Alex but his heart still pounding.

"Alex, I'm pretty sure the last you ate was about three days ago, you haven't slept in longer. I'm concerned for you. I think we should take this slow."

Alex drew himself up to his full height, his eyes livid and desperate.

"We? There's no 'we'! You're not the one who's been given the opportunity to actually do something!"

George placed a hand on his foster son's shoulder but was shrugged off, Alex took a few steps back.

"Son-"

Alex practically snarled, his jaw taught and his lower lip trembling with a combination of fury and exhaustion.

"I am not your son!"

George corrected himself quickly, worried about how the situation was progressing.

"Alex, I think you should rest, moving up to a more demanding year isn't a good idea."

"Oh, you think I won't be able to handle it?"

George shook his head, this was getting out if control. He realised his fists were clenched and he had subconsciously drew himself up to his full height.

"No- that's not- that's not what I mean!"

Alex smirked, the same sarcastic, irritable one he'd given the nurse just twenty minute ago.

"I just- I just worry about you when you don't take care of yourself."

Alex scoffed and George clenched his fists tighter, taking a step forward. He could feel his stomach bubbling with frustration.

"What?" He asked, confused at Alex's scoff.

"Yeah right you," he did air quotes with his fingers around his next word, "worry about me."

George scowled, "of course I do, what do you mean?"

"Please, I never see you. You're at work more than you're here, this place is no different to all the other rich ass homes I've been shoved into."

George raised his fist in frustration and Alex cowered back, his expression momentarily fearful. Of course, George hadn't been intending to hit his foster son at all, it was a habitual, frustrated reaction to the argument.

"Oh? You're more similar to my other foster fathers than I thought."

George glared at Alex, his eyes livid. Alexander didn't actually think he would have hit him?

"You know that's not what I-"

Alex rolled his eyes, "please."

George took another step forward and tried to take Alex's shoulder in comforting manner but he was pushed away.

"Get the fuck away from me!"

George stared at his foster son in shock and narrowed his eyes.

"Watch your language Alexander, don't speak like that to me. You know I want to help."

The teenager laughed mirthlessly.

"You're just like everyone else in this goddamn town," he gestured to the leather couch they'd been sitting on a minute earlier.

"You see that? I wonder how much that cost? I reckon my mother would work a year or so to get a loan for it."

George gritted his teeth and took a deep breath, he was trying to remain calm but Alexander was obviously trying to get a rise out of him.

"This house, how much money Martha and I have, has nothing to do with your health!"

Alex shook his head, a defiant gleam in his eye and that aggravating smirk back across his face.

"That's all I am to you, something to cushion your conscience. You've taken in some bastard orphan to feel better, so you can work with sleazy politicians and live in this fucking mansion and not feel so bad about it."

George thundered, his thoughts clouded with anger and his hand against his leg trembling.

"That's not true at all Alexander..." He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, "you know that's not true."

Alex clenched his fist and took a step forwards.

"So prove to me that you care and let me move to the eleventh grade."

George looked up to the ceiling, his fists clenched with frustration and his eyes squeezed shut. He needed to remain calm.

"Alexander, you're smart, you understand my reasoning on this matter, I don't need to explain it to you again."

Alex's smirk dropped and his eyes became dark and reproached.

"I can't believe you. I thought you'd be proud of me." He let out a laugh but it broke halfway out of his lips and fell crumpled to land at his feet.

George tried again to rest a hand on his son's shoulder but was pushed back, Alexander's face twisted with emotion.

"Alex, we'll consider it together, Martha and I. Maybe in a few months time, but right now..."

Alexander took a shuddering breath and glared up at his foster father in a way he never had before. He didn't know why he was saying all this, he didn't even know if he believed any of it, but right now he just wanted to feel something, anything.

He wanted George to yell at him, he wanted to sever any ties they might have had. He wasn't part of this family, they didn't care about him; and god did his head hurt...

"Well fuck everything I've worked for then. Should I just buckle down, do my work the same as everyone else? Go out and watch TV like everyone else? Be _normal_? Would you fucking like that?"

George stood stock still for a moment moment and took a sudden step forward, "Alexander for the last time, do not talk to me in that way!"

His foster son shrugged and looked at the ground for a moment, a small smirk on his face.

George stared at him for a moment, confused and livid, his chest rising and falling with the deep breaths he was letting out.

"Don't tell me how to speak, I'll call it like I see it."

George was finding it hard to remain calm now, his concern for Alex and instinct to help him when he was so obviously distressed was fighting with the fury and aggravation he felt towards his foster son and what was coming from his mouth.

"I think," he closed his eyes, his voice dangerouly low, "you should go to your room Alexander, get some rest."

Alex smirked, a dry smile on his face.

"I guess you need to make a phone call to my social worker. $25 bucks a day wasn't worth it then?"

Alex stared defiantly up at George, the height difference between them more evident the longer they stood there in silence. Alex dug his fingernails into his palm hard, feeling the skin split and sting. He enjoyed the small fragments of pain. Finally, the silence broke.

"I don't plan on calling anyone."

Alex shifted on his feet slightly and sneered.

"Don't act like you actually care about what happens to me. I'm sure you regretted this," he gestured down at himself, a frantic and hurt look in his eye, "since the beginning. Why don't you just go to back work? I'm sure you'd much rather be writing some sanctimonious essay than sharing the same fucking room as me."

George's eyes narrowed and he stepped forward, his attempts at remaining calm rapidly retreating to the vicinity of his brain that shut off when he was angry. His voice rose an octave louder and the anger in his voice was less controlled now. More unsteady, shaking like his hand was.

"You don't know what you're saying, I suggest you stop this now. I've warned you not to speak to me like that!"

The juxtaposition between the two was evident, Alex was all sharp sneers and carefully chosen sentences. He ranted and kept his voice low and taunting when he was angry, he was used to using words rather than fists. George however, rarely let his calm demeanour slip. His rage was unsteady and frustrated; he spoke in short, choppy sentences and paused a lot, not able to think straight through the din of his emotions. Alex was practiced in aggression, George was not.

Alex took a step forwards, even closer to his foster father now. His head was pounding and his mind wasn't as clear as he would have liked it to be during an argument. He knew well he was seeking out a confrontation, he recognised that he wouldn't be saying these things if his head was clearer, but George was there and he was going to stop Alex from succeeding, so in his very unfocused and clouded mind, he had a reason to be yelling.

"Are you mad you've found someone who can match you? Someone who isn't gonna blindly do whatever you tell them?"

George seethed and slammed his fist down on the side board next to them, his strength against the wood making loud thudding sound that Alex had always associated with trouble.

"What the hell has gotten into you? I've had it up to here! I think it's best you leave, Alexander. Go-go you your room now!"

His voice was trembling and he was so clearly trying to calm himself that Alex felt a sharp stab of guilt in his gut. George didn't want to be angry at him... But then he remembered all the sleep less nights and aching, cramped hands. How he'd gone without food and worked _so goddamn hard!_

"I understand, you need to get back to the office and do that stack of paper work I so inconveniently tore you away from."

George looked for a moment like he was about to scream at him, his jaw was tense and both fists were clenched into tight balls, his eyes stormy.

 _Go on, hit me, I dare you, hit me._

He scowled at his foster father, practically daring him to lash out. Alex just wanted something familiar, something he knew, that he could understand. That something just happened to be pain. He deserved to be punched and thrown down and kicked and beaten. He needed it. It was all be knew.

 _Please._

George of course, did nothing of the sort. He glowered down at Alex for a moment and let out in a hissing, low murmur that Alex had never heard him use before;

"Shoved through nine foster homes, I wonder why."

He stepped back from Alex, his eyes full of reproach, hurt and rage. Then George turned slowly around and walked out of the living room. His footsteps were like the beating of a war drum on the hall floor.

Alex could hear the creak of a chair in the kitchen and imagined George sitting at the table there, most likely with his head in his hands.

He stood there for a while, his fingernails retreating from their harsh position in his skin nanometer by nanometer.

He heard the sound of rubber tire against their driveway and the ringing of a bell. Lafayette.

With unsteady legs he walked up the stairs to his bedroom and locked the door, sliding the small bolt into place with such an air of finality that the clicking of the metal sounded almost like the cocking of a gun.

Alexander moved slowly towards his school bag, not frantic and desperate like he had been four days ago, instead slow and methodical. Clumsy and stumbling in his sleep deprived state. His hands fumbled with exhaustion and confusion on the zip for a moment before he pulled out his school pencil case with trembling hands.

The cold metal of the compass shocked his feverishly warm hands and stung even more when he dug it forcefully into the skin on his arm, gritting his teeth in agony as he pulled.

When he was done he ran his arm under the tap and wrapped the cuts with tissue paper. He practically fell into his bed a moment later, one shoe still on and his hoodie partially pulled off him, his injured arm tugged out of his sleeve. He didn't even bother to get under the covers, he fell asleep the instant his face touched bed. He wouldn't wake up for another twenty hours.


	21. Chapter 21

**Hey, thanks for reviewing and favouriting/ following as usual!**

 **By the way, I know there are typos and stuff in my chapters or a word will be auto corrected to something stupid, but it's hard when most of my chapters end up being like ten thousand words and I have to edit all that. I'm trying to ge better, I hope you'll forgive me.**

 **Ugh, I was reading this one REALLY GOOD fanfiction and now I'm looking back at mine and it's... not great. The sentences don't flow right and some lines are just flat and uninspired, there are typos that I can't go back to correct and so many wasted opportunities for me to write something actually good. I think when I finish this fanfiction I'll just totally re-write it, or at least the first ten or so chapters. Man, anyone else get really insecure about their writing? I feel like mine isn't that good.**

 **Liz: I'm not stopping any time soon lol. Damn, I'm not that good. I can see so many flaws in my writing.**

 **CarolinePhillips: That sucks, I get you. School is dragging me into the abyss. I'm glad I can help!**

 **Lamspickles: (:**

 **Trigger warnings: flashback to abuse, unhealthy attitudes towards eating.**

 **New chapter tomorrow. It will be way more exciting.**

Lafayette pressed slowly down on the breaks of his bike as he approached the long driveway of his house. He slid past the picket fence and shook drops of water falling from the trees out of his hair. The sky was a perfume coloured yellow, thick and musky - reminiscent of nineteen twenties jazz clubs and champagne parties on new years. Except this was a rural suburb of Virginia, where the most exciting event of the year was some cat being stuck in a tree.

The bike glided smoothly across the dark concrete and the misty rain had stopped, leaving the roads slippery but easier to ride on.

He hopped off his bike outside the garage and wheeled it inside, putting down the milk to lift up the bicycle and slide it into its rack above him. He closed the garage door out the front and walked through the back garden instead, stepping carefully around large puddles and snails, pulling the key from the pocket of his jacket and approaching the back door.

He looked through the glass into the warmth of the kitchen, a yellow glow suffusing onto the patio outside like a watercolour stain.

Through the glass reflecting images of a darkening sky, Lafayette could see George sat there at the kitchen table with his head in his hands. His face was hidden and his body stiff, sharp lines drawn with his shoulders and a tension in in his knuckles that made the skin taught and light.

His stomach dropped, he felt as though he were interrupting some sort of private moment. Was this because of Alexander? Had something else happened?

Lafayetet slid the key into the lock and opened up, watching George jump at the sudden noise and look up at the back door in alarm. His face and the lines of his muscles relaxed to defeated weariness when he saw it was Lafayette and stood up, walking to the counter to boil the kettle.

Lafayette felt a shiver run down his spine at the contrast between the chilly wind outside and the warmth of the kitchen. He hung up his jacket in the dark hallway in silence and slipped off his shoes, checking his hair in the hall mirror before walking back into the kitchen.

George had opened the milk and was pressing a tea bag against the side of a mug, his posture stiff and tense with his back to Lafayette.

"Papa... is everything okay?"

Lafayette's voice was hesitant and careful, his tone conveying a sort of agitated awareness he often took around Alex. It was small yet determined, unassuming yet demanding answers. George of course, provided none. No real ones at least.

Lafayette walked slowly towards his father and took a mug out of the cupboard above him, watching the man's expression. His face was paler than Lafayette had ever seen it and his eyes were dark, creased with concern.

"I-I... It's just Alex. I guess I'm worried about him."

Lafayette turned around to properly face his dad and pulled him into a hug, he felt his father's muscles relax and the embrace turned from tense and forced to loving. George rubbed his son's back comfortingly and pulled away, holding Lafayette in front of him by his shoulders.

"Son, if you ever want to talk about anything; school, friends, whatever, you know I'm here don't you?"

Gilbert nodded, his ponytail bobbing energetically along with him.

"Of course I do. Why? Are you sure everything is okay?"

George nodded again and pulled his son back into a hug, tousling his hair affectionately.

"Do you know anything about what happened with Charles Lee and George Frederick today?"

Lafayette shook his head, his face still resting against his dad's shoulder.

"I didn't have any classes with Alex until maths, and he hasn't shown up to were we meet at break time for the last few days."

George turned back to his tea and took a long sip, the heat of the drink in his throat calming him.

"Why not?"

Lafayette looked up in surprise.

"I didn't tell you? Well, maybe I didn't. John and Alexander had an argument that night at the cinema."

Lafayette poured some hot water into his mug and perched himself on the edge of the kitchen counter top.

"Oh. Well, I suppose I suspected as much."

Lafayette nodded and stared into his tea, contemplating whether or not to mention the situation with John and his father. He decided against it, after all, it was John's business. It wasn't his to share.

They fell into silence, George didn't want to talk about Alex any longer. Their argument still ringing in his ears and seeping into his mind like the biting winter chill you try to keep out at night but never can.

 _"Shoved through nine foster homes, I wonder why."_

He had to refrain himself from sighing aloud, he turned towards the window to avoid his son seeing the expression on his face. George bit down hard on his lip and took another sip of his tea.

Why had he said that? Why had the thought even crossed his mind, much less left his mouth?

 _"Shoved through nine foster homes, I wonder why."_

How could he ever face his foster son after saying that? Alex hadn't been in the right state of mind to be held accountable for what he said, George on the other hand and no excuse. Shoved through nine foster homes. Yeah, because most of them had beat him, starved him, abused him. How could he have said that? _How could he have said that?_

Lafayette stared at his father, only his back visible, turned to face the window in the kind of silence Lafayette recognised in him but had only borne witness to a few times before.

Slowly, he slid off the counter and made his way out of the kitchen. He walked upstairs, leaving his father alone with his thoughts. On the landing upstairs he stopped at Alexander's door for a moment or two, listening for sounds of movement or signs he was still awake. He pushed down on the handle slowly and made to open the door but found it was locked.

Lafayette frowned and took his hand off the handle. That was... worrying. Although, he thought it was understandable that Alex would want to sleep undisturbed, considering it would be the first time he'd slept in about four days.

He stood there for a moment before turning back around and walking into his room, flopping back down onto his bed and pulling out his phone. He had four missed calls from Hercules and ten from John. He grinned slightly to himself and pressed on John's icon, ringing his friend.

John picked up almost instantly, the first ring having not even died down when his voice sounded over the speaker.

"Is Alex okay? What happened?"

Lafayette smiled and shushed his friend.

"He is now asleep in his room, everything seems alright. He said something about Lee in the car though."

He heard John swear on the other end and the low tone of Hercules' voice spoke a little further away than John's. Maybe he was sitting next to him.

"Hey Herc!"

Laf called into the phone, grinning and a second later feeling something flutter in his stomach at the sound of his friend's voice.

"Hey Laf. Alex alright?"

Lafayette shrugged, then realised they couldn't see him.

"Je l'espère. He's asleep."

John spoke again, closer to the receiver and his voice slightly more urgent.

"Seriously though, what did he say about Lee?"

Lafayette walked over to his desk and ran his fingers over the books there, pacing up and down.

"He said they had a fight. He said Lee banged his head and punched him."

"Shit."

Gilbert walked to his bed and drummed a beat on the cover.

"Oui, he did not say very much. He seems quite..."

Lafayette searched for a suitable euphemism.

"Tired..."

He finished lamely, rubbing his eyes.

"You saw how he was speaking French and Spanish."

"Yeah. What was with that?" John's voice was so concerned, sympathy and exasperation tugged painfully at his gut.

Lafayette shrugged again, mainly for himself.

"I don't know. He seemed to be a little less dazed after the hospital."

He heard John sigh and Lafayette frowned slightly.

"John, you two need to talk."

John groaned but Hercules could be heard muttering in agreement on the other end.

"He's not gonna want to talk to me."

Lafayette smiled slightly, remembering the conversation he'd had with Alexander on the way into school that day.

"He said the same thing to me this morning."

There was silence on the phone for a few seconds and Lafayette took the opportunity to examine some Polaroids stuck to his mirror. It was John, Hercules and him on the last day of freshman year, in the park. The sun was setting behind them and their faces were glowing with golden light and happiness.

Lafayette didn't want to think about what could have been happening to Alexander the day that photo was taken. He'd still been living with his last foster parent.

"What does George think about it?"

"He thinks... tel père, tel fils."

 _Like father, like son._

Neither of them had to say anything more about that, it was well known in their town the opinion John Lee and George Washington entertained of each other.

"Are they going to the school about it?"

"I don't know. Last time they didn't want to because I punched Lee. They said that might get me suspended. It could be the same this time."

He walked back over to the mirror and tugged the band out of his hair.

"Do I really look like Jefferson when I have my hair down?"

Lafayette asked, breaking the silence with his usual blunt comic relief.

"Yeah. It's actually scary."

Lafayette groaned.

"But it looks so good down!"

He heard Hercules laugh on the other end, muffled slightly.

"Do you want to look like freaking Jefferson?"

"No..."

Lafayette scowled and pulled his hair into a bun.

"Martha will be home soon. I'll talk to her about it."

He flopped back down on to his bed, supine and stretched out lazily.

"What about George?"

Lafayette fiddled with a loose string on his bed spread.

"Something's up with him. He doesn't seem to want to talk."

"He's probably just worried, right?"

Lafayette frowned and stretched again, hearing his shoulder pop.

"Ugh, I heard that. Gross."

Lafayette laughed and rolled his eyes, stretched again and rolled onto his stomach.

"I don't know. Maybe Martha will have more luck with him."

"Will I see you at school tomorrow?"

Lafayette leant his head over the edge of the bed and hung upside down, still holding the phone to his ear.

"Yeah. You won't see Alex though."

He heard John grunt slightly in what could have been satisfaction and a loud tutting sound could be heard from Hercules.

"Jesus John, you need to end this stupid argument."

"I just want to know why he was casually chatting to Lee about our date."

Lafayette rolled his eyes and sat up, feel it the blood rush away from his head into his torso.

"I don't know what Lee meant that night but I'm sure there's an explanation."

"Sure. One that involves Alex not being able to keep his mouth shut, as usual."

Lafayette scowled and walked over to his mirror again, examining the stubble growing on his jaw.

"John, I don't want to hear it. You don't actually think I believe you're mad at him? You're not."

John sighed and Lafayette heard him tapping repetitively onto the side of his phone.

"I'm gonna go now. Herc's mom made dinner and I don't wanna be rude."

Lafayette sighed but nodded.

"Okay. Sleep well."

He heard Hercules on the other end yell a goodbye, the grin in his voice was evident. Lafayette could picture his smile, teeth a bright white against his dark sepia skin.

"Bye Herc!"

He heard a laugh on the end and some final, indistinguishable words before the phone was hung up. Lafayette smiled down at John's contact on his screen for a moment before turning off his phone and walking to his desk to start on some homework.

oo

George winced slightly as his hand was burnt against the hot frying pan, a long, thin red stripe appearing along the side of his finger.

He ran his hand under the cold water for a moment before taking the pan off the heat and stirring some balsamic vinegar into the fried vegetables. He'd always liked cooking, it was relaxing, took his mind off worries and usually resulted in something delicious he could share with his family.

Martha would be home sometime in the next twenty minutes. He thought it was fair for him to make dinner, seeing as he'd been off since the early afternoon.

He tipped the food onto four plates and covered one of them. He didn't know if Alexander would be awake for dinner, he doubted that he would. George also doubted his foster son would want to share a table with him, or eat food he had cooked. Nevertheless, he didn't want to risk Alexander being hungry and not having something to eat. If he wanted to come and eat dinner with them later, then George would have something to give to him.

George finished making dinner quickly, setting the plates into the oven at a very low heat to keep the food hot until Martha came home. He sat down at the kitchen table and opened his laptop where he'd been working for the past hour or so to take his mind off the events of the afternoon.

For the remaining ten minutes he had left before dinner, he buried himself in reading the articles his colleges and fellow Virginian democrats had sent to him about the other nominees and their backgrounds and political views.

He didn't hear Martha come home and hang up her coat and the chilly wind that blew in when the door opened brushed by him, not enough to distract him from his work.

"George."

He looked around, fingers pausing their dance over the keyboard.

Martha tilted her head slightly, a small smile on her face with one hand on her hip.

"How is Alex?"

George sighed slightly and closed his laptop, turning back around to face his wife.

"I don't think he's doing great."

Martha's face looked drawn and tired, the weary look in her eyes only exemplified by the bright light in the kitchen.

"You took him to the hospital?"

George nodded, moving towards the oven to take out the dinners and place them on the counter.

"Yeah. He was pretty out of it for a while. He has a concussion so he was speaking French, and apparently Spanish at one point?"

George shrugged and turned on the tap, filling a glass with water.

Martha was retying a her hair and had tidied away George's work things.

"What did the doctor say about it?"

"Well, they reckon he fainted mostly because of sleep deprivation and not eating enough-"

Martha sucked in a sharp breath which hitched in her throat. Her eyes were wide and pained but she said nothing so George continued.

"But according to Alex, he got in a fight with Charles Lee and hit his head, which is why he has a concussion."

Martha took two plates from the kitchen counter and helped George bring in the food to the dining room.

"Do you think he'll come down for dinner?"

George shook his head and carefully placed a glass of water on the table.

"No, he went to sleep almost as soon as he came home."

Martha sat down next to him and he looked up, surprised.

"Shall I call Gil?" He asked, making to stand up.

Martha shook her head and took his hand, which had been resting on the table, tapping a nervous beat.

"Are you okay George? You seem... distracted."

George closed his eyes and leant back in his chair, his hand squeezing Martha's tightly. She was not going to be happy with him, but he couldn't not tell her.

"Did something happen that I don't know about?"

George opened his eyes and nodded, fixing his gaze on the point between his wife's eyebrows, so he wouldn't have to look her in the eyes when he told her every thing. He knew he was doing the right thing in telling her, she was his wife and Alex was their son. This had as much to do with her as it did him.

"Well, when we came home from the hospital Alexander and I had an argument.

Martha's eyes widened infinitesimally and her eyebrows were slightly creased together, but George continued.

"He told me how his teachers wanted to move him a up a grade and I, well, I expressed some reservations about the idea."

Martha nodded slightly.

"Because of every thing he's going through right now," she finished for him, her hand still gripping his tightly.

"Yeah. Only, he was not best pleased. In all fairness, Alex wasn't really in the clearest state of mind and I don't really hold him accountable for anything he said..."

Martha shifted slightly in her chair, moving closer to him with an apprehensive look in her eyes. What was George getting at?

"What kinds of things did he say?"

George sighed, "just that...It really doesn't matter Martha..."

She shook her head, her eyes not moving from his, her tight curls bouncing and her expression determined.

"Its obvious that's it's bothering you."

George looked out the window for a moment watching the sun set over the trees.

"I- I hope he doesn't mean what he said, I think if he did I'd have to be a pretty bad foster parent to warrant it."

Martha's mouth tipped into a frown and her head moved slowly from one side to the other.

"I don't think you're a bad father, I don't think Alex does either."

George laughed at this and moved to stand up, he wanted to get Lafayette so they could eat dinner together and not talk about this anymore. Martha however, still had a firm grip on his hand. He knew that if he wanted to he could break away from it, but he wouldn't.

"What did he say to you? Did you say something to him?"

George's stomach twisted painfully, he could feel his hand shaking slightly and his foot was bouncing up and down again. He decided he'd have to answer the first question, put off the second one for as long as possible.

"He just said the kind of thing Lafayette did a few weeks ago. I'm always at work, I don't care about him, the whole corrupt politician line people often use."

Martha's eye were wide and she was on her feet in a second, standing behind him with her arms around his shoulders and her warm, smooth cheek against his.

"You're none of that George. I know Alex couldn't have possibly meant that, he knows how much you care about him, how could he not? Nothing he said he would stand by now. He was disoriented, emotional..."

George bowed his head and stared at the grain in the wooden table.

"He thought I was going to hit him Martha, I was angry and he said I was just like his other foster fathers"

Martha spun his chair around with some difficulty until they were facing eachother and cupped his cheek with her hand.

"Now I'm sure he couldn't have meant anything he said, because no one in a clear state of mind could think that about you."

He leant forward and rested his head against her shoulder, wrapping his arms tightly around her smaller frame. She reciprocated the hug immediately and rested her lips against his forehead, he could feel her warm breath against his skin.

"I... I said something I regret too. I was angry..."

He pulled away from Martha and looked her in the eyes now. Her arm was still draped over his broad shoulder and her hand was stroking his knuckle softly.

"I, I said something about how many foster homes he'd been in. That it was no wonder there had been so many."

Martha closed eyes and sucked in a small breath. When she opened them again he recognised the frustration and despair clear in them.

"Oh George..."

He closed his eyes and nodded.

"I know, I know, I should never have let him provoke me."

She sighed and lowered her head for a moment.

"You need to apologise and learn to keep your cool George. Let it go, don't let things you know to be wrong get to you."

He nodded again and took a sip of water from his glass, still not looking at his wife.

Martha was conflicted. She was angry at George, of course she was. He had been foolish and short sighted, he should never he'd let the argument come to that. But she could also see how much he was beating himself up for what he'd said. He didn't need to be told twice that he'd messed up.

"I'm- I'm confused. I thought you'd have learnt from your argument with Gilbert."

George said nothing but inclined his head slightly. Then he stood up in silence, his face stony and expressionless.

"I'm going to get Gilbert. You don't mind heating the dinner up? I think it's gone cold."

He left the room before she could answer and walked upstairs, his chest feeling tight and his jaw tense.

He knocked on Lafayette's door and heard the scraping of a chair and the sound of papers shuffling.

"Is it dinner?" He heard his son call, his was voice tired and George wondered how he'd been faring. He'd been able to talk to Martha, Lafayette hadn't been able to speak to anyone.

"Yes, it's on the table now."

The door opened and his son stepped out onto the landing. He was changed into pyjamas now and he'd let his hair down so that it surrounded his head in a coconut scented cloud.

George smiled slightly and turned back around, walking downstairs with Lafayette behind him.

Dinner was a quiet affair, George attempted to make casual talk about school, work and whatever else but for the most part Lafayette and Martha stayed silent, only the sound of cutlery scraping plate could be heard. The rest of the house was silent, with no indicator of Alex being awake upstairs. Lafayette reckoned it would be a little while until they saw him again.

After dinner Lafayette went back to his room and George to his while Martha stayed in the kitchen with the newspaper.

John had texted him a few times in the last hour or so, asking for updates on Alex. Lafayette told him the same as before. That Alex was asleep and probably wouldn't wake up till some time tomorrow.

He fell asleep not long after dinner with his phone on his chest and his light still on.

oo

 _The plaster was cold against his skin, the heating having not been turned on in months. The room was dimly lit, ripples of white light from a street lamp outside casting everything with an eerie, ghostly sheen. The smell of nicotine and fear was working it's way into his nostrils, settling into the folds of his jeans and the curls of his hair._

 _Large hands were wrapped around his throat; he could feel every callus and blister against his skin, the rough tips of fingers he knew were stained yellow from cigarettes._

 _"Please..."_

 _He hated his voice when it got like this. How weak and helpless he sounded. Like he couldn't run mental circles around this man for miles on his worst day._

 _The was no response except the feeling of the hands clenching tighter and fingernails digging into the side of his neck. He knew there'd be marks in the morning, he'd have to hide them for school less someone realise what they were._

 _The sound of joints clicking in preparation for a fight. Not that there would be much fighting per say, Alexander knew that kind of behaviour only landed him on accident and emergency faster._

 _The clinking of a belt buckle._

 _Panic seized him now and his limp arms were up at his throat, clawing at the grip there, squirming, writhing, trying to escape._

 _A sharp knee into his back stopped his movements quickly, winding him and forcing his hipbones into the wall painfully, there would be bruises there tomorrow too._

 _He wasn't ready for the first time the belt came down on his back, or even the second or the third. The whistling of leather through the air and the sharp cut across his shoulder stung like a wound that had been rubbed with alcohol. He frantically tried to kick away and groaned in pain, trying to get his mouth to form coherent words._

 _"Please, please, I'm sorry. You can't... I have s-school tomorrow."_

 _Mr Johnson's hand left his throat and seized his shoulder instead, flipping him around roughly to face him. Alexander whimpered as the lines cut across his back were pressed against the plaster. He didn't dare look up at his foster father's face. He knew that making eye contact was taken as insolence and he didn't want a repetition of the last time he'd made that mistake._

 _A fist was raised in front of him, pale in the silver light like a full moon hung in the air, ready to swing. He subconsciously ducked away, feeling his back slide down the wall and wincing again when he felt the cuts rub._

 _The fist connected with the right side of his face and he was sliding to the floor. The room around him was fading in and out of focus before a sharp kick to his ribs cued darkness to fall over his vision._

Alex's eyes snapped open, his chest rising and falling heavily and his forehead damp. The curtains were drawn - he thought he remembered closing them the night before - and that harsh, matutinal light fell in beams through the crack in his curtains, a world away from the slow, smooth lustre that filtered into the dark of his room at dusk.

Alexander's hands were clutched tightly around his sheets and his legs were tangled tight in blankets, most likely from his thrashing and kicking moments earlier.

He relaxed his muscles slightly and melted into his bed, feeling his shoulders trembling against the soft cotton of his pillowcase. He closed his eyes and took deep breaths, trying to think of things to distract him from the subject matter of his dream.

 _His mother's laughter, reading in the garden with Lafayette, the beach near his house in Nevis where he'd write._

It was unusual for him to dream about Mr Johnson. Normally Pace was the subject of dark, night time terror and sharp awakening. He rolled over onto his side and looked at the clock. It was eight minutes last ten o'clock. He wondered if any one was home. God, he hoped George wasn't.

 _Please let him be at work, please let him be at work..._

He sat up in his bed and took a deep, steadying breath. He raked his hands through his hair and counted to ten once, twice, three times. Then, slowly he swung his legs out of bed and walked to the bathroom.

He took a quick shower. Burning hot, as usual and dressed slowly in jeans and his hoodie. He didn't want to leave his room lest he run into George and besides, he knew he'd be made eat something and talk about what happened. That he didn't want to do.

 _They're probably furious at you. George definitely is, Lafayette has certainly sided with John and Martha most likely hates you now you've ruined everything._

He pulled out a pen and set it to his paper, waiting for the words to come flowing from him like they always did. He frowned and thought harder. An essay for English class about the themes of family relationships in the novel. It should be easy. He tapped his pen against the side of his desk, moving the ink further towards the nib. Slowly, he wrote one phrase at the top of his sheet of paper.

 _Themes of family relationships and the struggles caused by these relationships have much significance in Khaled Hosseini's 'The Kite Runner.'_

Bland. Uninspired, dull. Was that all he could come up with?

He crossed out the phrase and started again one line down, rubbing his eyes and tapping the nib of his pen against the margin of his page, a colony of little black dots appearing there.

One hour later he'd written a page and a half that he could barely bring himself to read. It was flat and unemotional, too one sided and not detailed enough to be a sophomore honours class essay. Nothing he talked about went into to depth about the novel and the context in which it was written, barely a B grade if he was honest with himself.

He scrunched up the paper and flung it against the wall, frustration bubbling in him and rising to his chest where it burned his throat like fire.

There was a polite knocking on his door and he jumped slightly, his hand settling back to the desk from its clenched fist in mid air.

"Yeah?"

He stood up and moved towards the door, remembering it was locked. Alex slid the bolt out of place and opened the door hesitantly, peeking out into the corridor.

It was Martha.

 _Thank God._

He opened the door wider and stood in front of her nervously, wringing his hands together in an anxious dance.

She was holding a large plate out in front of her laden with breakfast. Toast, scrambled eggs, fried tomatoes, sausages. She'd remembered that he didn't like bacon - from a conversation she hadn't even been part of...

"I heard the shower on so I thought I'd make you breakfast."

She smiled warmly at him, her eyes running over his under eye circles and defeated posture.

"I-I..."

He didn't want to eat. His throat seemed to clench at the thought and his brain furiously told him not to. Not till he'd written a proper essay, not till he deserved to.

Martha inched the food closer to him, a pleading look taking over her features.

"Please Alex, I'm sure you're hungry."

He _was_ hungry. His stomach was growling at him to eat something, _anything_ edible.

"O-okay."

His voice was low and croaky, hoare from yelling and crying the previous evening. Somehow he managed a small smile in Martha's direction and reached forward to take the plate, his shaking hands clasping around the china carefully; he was afraid he would drop it.

"Do you want to come down later, watch something on TV, or do some homework while I'm on my laptop?"

He shrugged and put his plate down on the desk behind him.

"I-I might later, uhh, I'm pretty wrapped up in something right now..."

She smiled and nodded slightly, holding her arms out slightly to invite him into a hug.

He hesitantly stepped forward and they hugged for a moment, her arms tight around his thin shoulders. When she stepped back her face was concerned and her features set anxiously.

"You've lost some weight."

He shifted slightly on his feet and pulled his hoodie tighter around himself, shrugging.

"Well, just eat breakfast and I'll see you later, okay."

He nodded and tipped his mouth into an awkward grimace, something not even worthy to be called a smile when compared the the warm grin she gave him, exuding understanding and kindness.

She retreated back downstairs with a wave and Alex walked back into his room, sitting back down at his desk where he had put his breakfast.

He stared at it for a long moment.

 _Write first, eat later. Write first, eat later. Write first, eat later. You don't deserve it, you don't deserve it, you don't deserve it, you don't deserve it - Don'tdeservedon'tdeservedon'tdeserve._

Alex picked up his plate and put it on the bedside table behind him, where he couldn't see it. He flexed his hand and dismissed the ever growing hunger pangs in his stomach, reasoning that he would work better with his mind sharp and not sleepy from a full stomach.

He set his pen back to his paper and began to write.

 **New chapter up tomorrow. It's complete, I just need to edit it one last time.**


	22. Chapter 22

**Hey dudes. New chapter.**

 **Trigger warnings: self harm, xenophobia, violence/fighting, anxiety, kinda panic attacks, brief mention of police brutality, self hatred.**

 **(I never know what to warn for, tell me if I miss anything. I think I warn unnecessarily sometimes but better safe than sorry I guess.)**

 **The scene of self harm might be a bit upsetting, it's obvious when it's about to happen so you don't have to read it. It's not graphic or explicitly described; I don't write that stuff, but it could be triggering.**

 **Yo, any French or Spanish (or both) speakers willing to help me out? I speak French at a fairly conversational level (slightly better than public school standard) but it's not amazing. Understanding is one thing, writing with correct grammar and usage of slang is another. Spanish though, I have no clue about. So, if you can help, it would be much appreciated.**

Lafayette walked into maths class with his fist clenched and his jaw set. His gaze fell upon Charles Lee and George Frederick and he walked over to where they were sat in the corner of the class room. His sneakers squeaked across the linoleum floor like a record scratching, the preamble to a fight song.

Charles Lee looked up at the noise and did a double take when he saw the furious expression on the French teenager's face.

"What the fuck did you do to Alex yesterday?"

Charles Lee grinned that aggravating, complacent, smug, 'asking to be punched in the face' grin and turned to George, who was sat next to him.

"Do you know what he's talking about George?"

Lafayette turned his attention to the blond teenager and glowered at him. He looked away slightly awkwardly and shrugged, not bringing his eyes up to look at Lafayette.

Lafayette, seized with frustration and fury, grabbed one of Charles' textbooks and threw it forcefully at the ground, his hand trembling. It landed with a dull thump, open on the floor like an oyster.

Someone was standing behind him now, he turned around, expecting to see Seabury or one of the other stuck up, arrogant, obnoxious, elitist, small minded-

It was John.

Lafayette ignored his friend, too concentrated on the anger burning in his chest to say anything to him. He focused his attention back on the pale, dark haired teenager in front of him.

"I'll repeat myself. I suppose you didn't understand me the first time. What did you do to my brother yesterday?"

He laid a heavy stress on 'my brother', not once snapping his vision away from the rain coloured, cruel eyes in front of him. His French accent was more pronounced this time, his 'r' sounds harsher in the back of his throat and his voice heavy with sarcasm.

Charles Lee had sat up a little straighter in his chair, his eyes narrowed and his arms folded across his chest.

"Exactly what I'll do to you if you don't pick up my book right now."

Lafayette scoffed and he felt John move to stand closer to him. This gesture of camaraderie made a warm feeling bloom in his chest and he smiled slightly to his friend.

"Why don't you? Maybe you're not used to having to do things yourself, but I assure you, it's not too difficult even for the likes of you."

John hissed this comment, opening his mouth before Lafayette even had time to formulate a response.

The French teenager shot a grateful look at John who nodded slightly and glared at Lee, his eyes furious.

George had leaned in closer to the three of them, his eyebrows furrowed and his expression one of defensiveness and disbelief.

"Pick up his book and piss off."

Lafayette raised his eyebrows and looked down at the book in distaste. He nudged it with his Adidas sneaker-ed foot before shrugging and turning away from Lee, walking back across the class room to his seat and flopping down casually, facing the front. John leaned in to Lee, scowling at him.

"You'll regret what you did to Alex."

Lee raised his own dark eyebrows and smiled slightly, running his eyes up and down John condescendingly.

"I'm positively trembling with fear, Laurens."

John rolled his eyes and turned around, not sparing another glance at the two boys behind him. He strode towards his seat next to Lafayette and sat down, sighing at his friend and nodding his head wearily towards the two boys at the back.

Lafayette clenched his fist and looked towards the front as their teacher walked in, logging on the computer and starting the lesson.

oo

It was after school when Lafayette next saw Lee and George. They were sitting on a bench outside the main building about fifteen minutes after the bell. He and John had gone to the library to find a science textbook and Hercules had a late detention in his homeroom, so they were delayed leaving school.

The outside courts were empty aside from a few seniors studying for finals on the far side of the field, not far from where Lafayette, John, Hercules and Alexander often sat at break.

When John and Lafayette stepped out of the building, Lee and George looked up immediately, the former with a wide, ominous looking grin on his face and the other looking slightly nervous but none the less angry.

John and Lafayette stopped in their tracks, eyeing the other teenagers in with apprehension and suspicious resentment.

They stood there for a few moments, rather like how cats watch each other, stock-still in the moments before one pounces.

Lafayette made to turn left and take the longer route away from George and Lee, past the sports building and out the back gate usually reserved for school personnel or deliveries.

John however subtly grabbed his elbow and steered him towards the main gate, in the direction of Lee and George. He held his head up high, he was not afraid of these bastards.

They drew closer to the beach and Lee stood up, quickly followed by George.

"Dreadfully sorry Alexander couldn't come in today. Give him my best."

Lafayette stopped and turned to Lee, his face hot. He saw George glance at Charles in wary apprehension before running his eyes over Lafayette's expression.

He took a few steps towards Charles until he was less than a meter away from him, staring him straight in the eye. They were just as tall as each other, their builds both more a less equally muscular and lean.

For a moment, he fancied a flash of intimudation in Lee's eyes, but if it had indeed been there it was gone in an instant.

"You need to grow up and get a hobby that isn't being a racist, homophobic asshole."

John was next to him, his clenched fists outlined sharply in his jean pockets and his face set.

Lee took a step closer to Lafayette and George to John, who raised his chin up to stare defiantly at the taller teenagers. John was tall, sure, but next to George he seemed smaller than usual. Nevertheless, his strong, defined muscles were taught and his face indignant. He wasn't exactly someone you'd like to make angry.

"I think you need to pay closer attention to your so-called 'friend'."

Lee, his eyes bright with sadistic amusement and smugness, smirked.

John looked from George to Lee to Lafayette and then back to Lee again, his expression confused and possibly even slightly scared.

Lafayette shot a glance in his direction but quickly looked back at Lee, frowning.

"Excuse me?"

George smiled slightly at his friend and took over, his apparent nervousness disguised almost convincingly with an aggravating smirk.

"He must not trust either of you very much, Charles nearly broke his finger and he didn't care to mention it?"

John's eyes widened and he stiffened, his posture suddenly straighter and more alert.

Lafayette's mind was reeling, what did this mean? Had Alex been hurt more times then he'd let on?

Lee took over, incited by their silence and expressions of outrage. He allowed himself a loud, sharp laugh.

"All those times I laid into him and you didn't once notice anything?"

Lafayette moved closer, backing Charles closer to the chain link fence of the school grounds. The dark haired teen kept goading him, that detestable smile unwaveringly plastered across his face.

George shot his friend a look and nudged him, nodding toward the gate as though signalling for them to leave. His face was anxious and his eyes narrowed. Teasing and insulting them was one thing, the fist fight that was crossing the bounds into inevitability was another.

Lee however shrugged off his friend and sneered at Lafayette.

"He has a creative repertoire of insults, until you get a punch to his stomach. That tends to shut him up."

Lafayette snarled and reached back his fist, ready to swing towards Lee. His vision was obscured by a wave of anger, his brain frantic and overwhelmed.

All those times Alex had winced when he moved, dismissing it as leftover pain from his rib or a muscle cramp. How he had worn that hoodie constantly, even when no cuts marred the skin on his forearms.

Lee caught his fist in mid air and glanced at George, who had assumed a defensive stance, his eyes watching John's livid expression with determination. John was struck by his unrelenting loyalty (misplaced, yet vehement) and refusal to abandon his friend. George so clearly didn't want to be there but had yet to leave.

It would have been admirable, but because of the circumstance of his allegiance, he considered the action cowardice. A refusal to stand up for personal morals. Loyalty to a person on the wrong side undermines the positive connotations associated with the quality. Instead, this 'loyalty' could be better named as chauvinism. John decided he liked that descriptor; chauvinism. It suited George.

"Fucking stay away from my brother."

Lafayette's mouth twisted into a snarl and he wrenched his fist out of Lee's grip, rolling his shoulders angrily.

"Bit late for that now."

Lafayette let out a yell of anger and swung his fist straight at Charles stomach, hitting dead on centre and making the dark haired boy double over in pain. He hasn't been ready for that, he had been expecting a blow to the face.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see John backing George towards the fence, George's lips were moving and his expression taunting but Lafayette couldn't hear what he was saying.

Lee straightened up, gasping.

"Immigrant shit."

Lafayette raised his fist and sent it straight into Lee's face, feeling his knuckles throb as they connected with the vicinity around his left eye.

Lee's head was momentarily knocked sideways, his face jolting to turn in the other direction. He clutched his left cheekbone for a second before letting out a angry, sarcastic laugh and stepping towards Lafayette in fury, throwing himself on top of him and knocking them both down onto the asphalt.

Lee weighed down heavily on the teen beneath him and pinned Lafayette's arms down with his knees so he couldn't move, crushed into the concrete painfully with loose stones grating against his back.

Lee drew back a bony fist, crashing it into Lafayette's face, hitting his lip and chin. Lafayette could feel blood there, his lip had split. The taste was hot and metallic in his mouth and he could feel the pulsing of blood pumping at the cut.

Lee dug his knee sharply into Lafayette's elbow which was still pinned to the ground and backhanded him twice across the face, leaving Lafayette gasping and thrashing to get up.

The French teen, with an almighty effort, wrenched a hand free from under Charles and used the leverage to sit himself up, scrambling and kicking away from the boy on top of him.

His face throbbed, from his left to right cheek there was a sharp stinging where Lee had hit him and blood was dripping down from his lip onto his shirt.

 _That was a freaking nice shirt, asshole._

He took a step towards Lee, wiping his nose with his hand, streaking it with blood.

Lafayette suddenly jumped at the boy in front of him, not giving him a second to react before he'd knocked them both back onto the concrete, this time him the one on top.

He made to pull back his fist to punch Lee but was distracted by a yell behind him and groans of pain.

 _Please don't be John._

He spun around, his friend was lying on the asphalt, clutching his nose with a hand that was rapidly being stained with blood.

 _Putain de merde._

Momentarily distracted by this, Lee shoved Lafayette off him and knocked him to the ground on his stomach, winding him for long enough to be still while Charles sent sharp kicks to the side of his stomach over and over again, each strike sending a wave of pain through his torso and knocking the breath from his lungs.

He rolled away, breathing heavily and tried to scramble to his feet. This proved useless however when he felt someone's hand grasped around his ankle, he kicked out but the grip didn't falter and a second later he was being dragged across the asphalt by someone he realised must have been George.

His chin and palms were being rubbed against the stones hard, shredding the skin and leaving it red and bleeding. Suddenly, the grip around his ankle was gone and above him there were sounds of fist hitting face and groans of pain.

Lafayette rolled over onto his back in time to see someone punching George hard in the jaw and shoving him towards the fence.

 _Herc?_

 _Herc!_

He was being helped to his feet a moment later by his friend and John too was beside him, still clutching his nose.

"What the fuck is going on here?"

Hercules whispered, his fists clenched and his eyes frantic.

Lafayette shook his head and he glared at Lee for a long moment.

"Touch him again and you'll get more than a black eye."

He looked them up and down with a grim kind of satisfaction. Lee was breathing heavily and his hair was a mess, his eye slowly turning purple and his face red. George's mouth was bleeding and John's fingernails were etched into his cheeks in the form of long, red scratches.

Lafayette didn't get to hear a response, in fact, if he wanted to he wouldn't have been able to because Hercules had grabbed his elbow and was steering him and John out of the gate and behind a large cedar tree planted there.

"Laf! What the was that? I come to meet you guys out on the courts and you're fucking being kicked on the floor by those idiots!"

This was serious, Hercules only ever swore when he was really angry.

"We'll fill you in in a minute," he looked at John, "merde, ton nez. It is broken, non?"

John pinched slowly along the bridge of his nose and shook his head, tilting it back to stop the blood flow.

"Just hurts like hell."

Hercules looked from John to Lafayette, his mouth wide.

"Are you gonna tell me what happened or..."

John sighed angrily and held the end of his hoodie to his nose, stemming the blood flow.

"Apparently Lee and Frederick have been beating Alex up for weeks. Of course, a fight ensued."

Hercules was silent for a long moment, his eyes slowly taking on the rare, formidable anger that Lafayette had only seen a few time before.

"Why did we not know?"

John shrugged and winced, pressing down on his nose tentatively.

"You'll have to ask Alex. I've been thinking though, the day we went to the cinema he was fifteen minutes late to meet me. When he showed up he was limping. I didn't think much of it but..."

Lafayette held his face in his hands and groaned.

"Putain. This is all my fault, I should have noticed."

Hercules moved towards his friend and wrapped his arm around him in a hug, holding him tightly and shaking his head.

"No, it's their fault. We can't blame ourselves."

John patted Lafayette on the back a few times and murmured in agreement, joining in on the hug himself a second later.

Hercules stepped back and looked them up and down, his eyes concerned.

"We need to patch you up."

John and Lafayette looked at eachother and flipped up their hoods as the three teenagers started to walk in the direction of Lafayette's house.

Hercules moved behind them and pulled their hoods back down quickly, guiding them across the road to a shortcut down a side street all the while looking around them with a wary expression on his face.

"Hey! I don't want someone seeing me like this!"

Lafayette made to pull his hood back up and gestured to his face.

Hercules caught his hand and they kelt walking.

"One latino and two black kids wearing hoodies and looking the way you two do, we'd be stopped by cops in a second, Stephen Rankin served here. Remember him? I ain't about to get shot."

He made his posture straighter and guided them past some low hanging branches.

"Just fix your hair or wipe away some of that blood."

Lafayette rolled his eyes but stopped trying to put his hood back up. John had to grudgingly agree that his friend was right.

"What exactly happened?"

Lafayette filled the silence with a cough, spitting blood out onto the pavement.

"That's not internal. Don't worry. Or at least I don't think it is."

He waved away Hercules' look of horror and continued.

"In maths this morning I asked Lee about yesterday. Évidemment, he was an asshole. When we came out from the library, he was there with George on the bench. He kept talking about Alex and about hurting him so I punched him. Then we fought."

Hercules rubbed his forehead, his eyes wide and his jaw tense.

"So what the hell do we do now?"

oo

Alex put down his pen and looked up and glancing at the clock. He'd been writing for hours now, worked his way through many essays; none of which he was totally happy with.

His sentences seemed safer and flatter than usual, far from the controversial and daring statements that were the hallmarks of his writing. His ideas seemed uninspired and his pace was slower than usual. He found himself pausing for long periods of time, trying to figure out what to say.

Rationally he could attribute this to his concussion, but part of him worried that he was losing his nerve, that he for some other reason just wasn't able to write. This idea terrified him, it overwhelmed and controlled him. If he couldn't write, who was he? He wasn't Alexander Hamilton, that was for sure. Until he could build palaces out of his paragraphs and raze or create with his sentences, he wasn't himself.

He tidied away his pens, deciding he'd take Martha up on her offer to sit downstairs and watch TV or something. He turned around and his eyes fell of the breakfast Martha had brought him up a few hours ago. He hadn't taken a single bite.

He picked up the plate slowly and opened his bedroom door, taking light and noiseless steps downstairs. He padded silently into the kitchen and tipped the food into the waste bin, there was no point eating it now. It was stone cold.

He pulled some tissues from a box next to the kettle and threw them on top of the food in the bin, just so Martha didn't notice that it had been dumped there.

He rinsed off his plate at the sink and slid it into the cupboard before walking into the living room; hands in his pockets, hair half hiding his face.

Martha looked up from her laptop and smiled at him warmly, saving her work and closing her laptop.

"Was the breakfast okay?"

Alex nodded, a sick feeling in his gut.

"Yeah, it was good."

She smiled and walked over to the television, turning it on and picking up the remote.

"George saved a documentary about the Trump-Clinton election. He said you'd like it, do you wanna watch it?"

George had? But he was furious at Alex? Rightly so he supposed... But hell, Alex was mad at him too.

Alex gave a small nod and sat himself onto the couch carefully, leaving some space between himself and Martha. He didn't want anyone near him, he just wanted to zone out from everything for as long a time as he could.

Alex had to admit though, the documentary was good. It didn't patronize the viewer, it wasn't elementary stuff and it actually called out Trump for more than his orange skin.

It was long, maybe an hour and a hkaf to two hours and it hadn't even finished yet when the clock struck four thirty. Lafayette would be home from school any minute.

Martha got up to put on the kettle and Alex paused the documentary, sitting quietly at the sofa, waiting for Martha. It was around that time when he heard the front door being unlocked and the voices of three people in the hallway.

Hercules, Lafayette and.. and John.

Alex jumped to his feet and felt his heart flutter wildly. John was here. _John was here_.

He briefly contemplated hiding, behind the sofa or in a cupboard someowhere, but that idea seemed juveniles and pathetic. He stood stock still as the living room door opened and Lafayete steeped in, closely followed by Hercules and then John.

What?

Alex scanned his eyes over John and his foster brother, his heart rate accelerating and his breathing quickening the longer he looked. Lafayette lower lip was bleeding heavily and his chin was grazed harshly, bright red and dark with blood. John was clutching his nose with a pained expression. It was dripping bright red blood and his left eye was bruised and swollen looking.

Alex immediately rushed over, forgetting everything but the fact that his friends were hurt, that Lafayette was _hurt,_ that John was _hurt_.

He spoke in rapid French to Lafayette, his voice and hands trembling with fear.

"Qu'est que s'est passé! Vous etêz bien? Bien sûr que non! Laf, ta lèvre! John, ton nez! Été-ce George et Lee? Merde!"

He tilted Lafayette's face towards him and examined the cut on his chin and lip, frowning and gently prodding at the dried blood. Lafayette could feel his hands trembling against his jaw.

Lafayette took a step back from Alex and brushed off his hand.

"I'm not the only one who has some explaining to do."

Alexander recoiled as if he'd been struck and seemed to shrink in on himself, taking a step backwards of his own. He looked from John to Hercules who both wore expressions of frustration and indignance.

"Je-Je..."

At that moment however, Martha walked back into the living room with two mugs in her hands and a smile on her face. This smile quickly diminished however when she took in her son and his friend's appearance. She instantly put the mugs down on the table, sloshing some tea over the side but not caring or stopping until she was in front of her son.

She took his face in her hands and examined the cut as Alexander had done, her hands however were steadier. With Martha, Lafayette didn't pull away.

"What happened?"

Her voice was low and her eyes were a mix of angered and concerned, as though she was reserving judgement on which emotion to convey until she'd heard the full story.

John spoke up first, his nose, concerningly, still bleeding.

"I think we should patch ourselves up and sit down first."

Martha frowned slightly, her eyes wide. She led them into the kitchen and pulled gauze, bandages and creams from the cupboard, setting them out on the table with furious urgency.

"Maman, nous sommes- we are okay. It's not as bad as it looks."

She said nothing and instead ran some tissue under the tap, turning swiftly around and stepping closer to her son.

She raised her hand and gently pressed the tissue to his chin, rubbing only slightly to try and remove any dirt from the cut.

Lafayette winced and the pressure Martha was applying lessened somewhat. She let Lafayette hold the tissue in place while she turned to John, a wet cloth in her hand.

"Don't tilt your head, the blood will go to your brain. Just let it flow into the cloth. It will stop soon."

John took the cloth awkwardly and held it to his nose, dabbling gently at the blood already dried there.

Alexander stood in the doorway, his hands clasped firmly together and his eyes darting from one person to another, taking on a restless quality Lafayette recognised from the first few days Alexander had spent in their house, when he was still unsure whether to expect a hit or not.

Martha pulled some chairs out from the table and sat down, beckoning John and Lafayette to do so as well. Alexander turned around and made to leave, his foot halfway out the door when Lafayette clicked his fingers and pointed at one of the chairs, an aggrieved look on his face.

Alex felt his stomach churn but he sat down anyway. He knew what this had to be about, what must have happened for this circumstance to arise.

He kept his head lowered, gaze firmly fixed on his knuckles and ears open and keen for sounds and signs of anger.

"Do you want to tell me what happened?"

Martha's voice here, low and concerned with a pervading edge of irritation.

"You know Charles Lee and George Frederick?"

Unmistakably John's voice now. That subtle New York accent, so welcome and familiar to Alex; not just for belonging to the city he'd lived in for years but for belonging the boy he'd cared about for what felt like even longer.

Martha's voice was tinged with irritation now.

"Why did I even bother asking? It's always those two."

Lafayette's small, wry chuckle.

"What exactly happened?"

John's voice again, so close to Alex, only about a foot away.

"We... We had a fight. It was a fight mind you, they didn't just beat us up. You should see George."

There was a hint of amused pride in his voice now, humour he acknowledged was probably inappropriate but was there nonetheless.

The grain in the wood of the table was compacted close together and swirled in rings. Alexander started to count them, wondering how old the tree had been. There was a word for the study of tree rings, what was it? Something-chronology... Dendro... Dendrochronology, that was it.

"Why?"

Martha's voice quiet and angry now, only slightly louder than a whisper with as much foreboding as a yell laced into it. He snapped out of his daydream, the age of the tree the table had been made from disappearing from his mind. It was of little importance.

The feeling of his fingernails digging harshly into the soft skin of his palm, was that blood he felt pooling in the pit of his hand?

The unmistakable sixth sense of eyes upon him that he didn't dare look up to. Silence and electricity buzzing in the air.

"Alex, I think you know why."

Hercules voice for the first time. Soft, quiet, assured. It wasn't angry, just _there_.

Alex looked up quickly, glancing around at everyone in the room with frightened eyes. What where the escape routes? Had he planned for this room when he'd first arrived here?

His breathing quickening, the buzz of silence and hot, wet blood gathering underneath his fingernails. He squeezed harder and almost winced.

"Gilbert, what's going on? What's this got to do with Alex?"

Alex took a deep breath and looked up at Lafayette from under a shroud of hair.

"I can explain. Alex knows what's going on, but I can explain..."

Martha sighed and Alex could tell she was losing patience.

 _Not good, not good, not good. What if she gets angry? What if she tells George and he's even angrier? Not good, not good._

Lafayette shifted slightly and began to speak, his tone sheepish, hesitant and French accented.

"Well, it was after school when we came out to the gate. Lee and George were sitting there on the bench."

He heard Martha let out a small breath.

"He, Lee I mean, said something about Alex. About how he couldn't come to school."

Alex shrank down into himself in the chair, why did this have to have started because of him? Why did he wreck every thing?

"I asked him about it, told him he should grow up and stop being an asshole."

Martha, who would normally reprimand the use of that language, said nothing.

John's voice now, dark and low like the taunts he'd flung at Lee in the cinema.

"He... He said that he'd been hurting Alex. Said he'd nearly broken his finger once and had punched him loads."

Utter silence. Then the humming of electricity and the restless energy of humans, crackling together in a circle, something so alive and corporeal. As though you could reach out and feel the anger in the air.

Alex was aware of a drop of blood sliding down the side of his hand to pool on the table. He stared at it for a moment, watching the light reflect off the crimson liquid.

Hercules, with out a moments notice had jumped out of his chair and headed towards the sink, holding a tissue under the hissing stream of water with a grim expression on his face.

Alex flinched at the unexpected movement but stayed still when Hercules slowly uncurled his fingers from their painful position and pressed a wet tissue to the crescent moon cuts on his palm.

Low words in his ear, comforting and friendly. Their tone sounded more like the jokes your friend whispers in your ear at the cinema or in the back of a particularly boring class.

He nodded, despite not knowing what words been said and relaxed in his chair slightly, gripping the tissue so that water ran down his wrist instead of blood. It was thinner, colder too.

Eyes on him, on his hand, picking him apart and examining the pieces.

"Alex, you don't have to talk about this now if you don't want to."

Martha's voice was quiet and gentle, the leaves of a tree being ruffled by a soft wind.

He stood up cautiously, his eyes still on his hand and the wet tissue incarnadined with blood. He walked slowly towards the door, as if nervous the offer would be revoked and he'd be forced to sit back down again.

The scraping of a chair against tiled floors, like the sound of a sword being withdrawn from its sheath. He jumped and looked up, making eye contact with Lafayette. He looked furious.

"He needs to explain what the hell has been going on!"

Alex took a step back from the sudden movement and noise, his breath catching in his throat.

John's voice was weary and resigned, "just let him go. He clearly doesn't want to talk."

He was right, could somebody side with John, could somebody please just let him sleep?

Lafayette's voice pleading now, thick and pained sounding in his throat.

"Alexandre, we only want to help you. That's all we've ever wanted to do."

Alex stood in the door way, his eyes dancing over the people sat in the room around the table, watching him.

"I- I just want to go to my room."

His voice was hoarse and small. He knew Lafayette wanted him to stay, to take a break from his writing and talk to them. But he couldn't. Not with John there, not about Lee and George.

Lafayette hung his head for a second, stray curls that had fallen from his pony tail framed his face and his upper lip was speckled with blood, almost like freckles. His eyes hardened and he bit his lip, gazing at Alex with an expression of rare malice.

"Fine. Go then, I'm evidently not going to stop you."

His words carried the smallest trace of resentment, a touch of spite woven into his voice that made Alexander shiver slightly. He'd never been anything but close with Lafayette, the idea that his foster brother was angry was enough to make his fingernails move to dig back into the skin of his palms.

He stood in the door way for a moment longer, caught between an apology and a retort of his own. He said neither, the words too far away from his tongue to actually threaten spilling over his lips.

He turned around, listening to the soft sounds of his footsteps against the floorboards. They didn't creak. Of course they didn't - nothing in this house was broken, in any state of disrepair or below the standard of perfect. It made him sick.

He walked out of the kitchen and up the stairs, his head crowed and his thoughts overbearing. He just needed to sleep. To lie down and stop feeling anything. Everything.

He pushed into his bedroom and locked the door behind him immediately, walking over to the desk where he'd put his pencil case.

The compass was right at the bottom of the case, as sharp as ever. The smooth silver point shone gun metal grey like a storm cloud.

He rolled back his sleeve, the cuts he'd made on his arm the night before scanned over with a layer of dried blood, the same colour as the inside of pine tree bark or red fabric, faded after being placed for too long in direct sunlight.

He hissed in pain at the sharp stinging on his arm and felt blood run lazily down his arm like a stream.

Of course, he'd done it again. He'd gone too deep. Before he could mess up his arm and the situation even more, Alex dropped the compass onto the desk and rushed to the bathroom and cleaned his arm, the blood running down the tap easily. It mingled with the clear, cold water in the sink and where it pooled when he turned off the tap, it settled above the thinner liquid. Funny, he thought, that blood and water would both flow under the same bridge eventually.

He dabbed at the cut with some tissues, it stretched from the sharp, protruding bone at his pencil wrist and ended about two or three inches up his forearm. It would leave a scar, but perhaps one jagged and irregular enough looking to attribute to a fall or an accident with scissors or some other such sharp appliance, particularly one of the running variety.

He wrapped his forearm with some tissues and pondered buying some gauze or bandaids of his own to keep in his room. That way he could avoid constantly slipping down to the kitchen at night for some. For the moment though, that was what he would have to do.

He pulled himself into bed and closed his eyes. It was only around five o'clock but his head was aching and his heart pounding. If there was anything he needed at the moment it was sleep.

Forget food, human contact, his writings even; he just wanted to not have to think about anything. That was all he seemed to want these days; oblivion. He wondered what he would resort to to achieve it.


	23. Chapter 23

**Sup, how are you guys?**

 **Thanks for so many reviews, hell, you guys are so supportive and great.**

 **NexaRust: wow! Thanks so much, how is the French so far? I try to make it as correct as I can. If you could help me out that would be really cool, do you have an account I could DM you on? Mullette... ah, mullette. Wait for it.**

 **Chilazon: Yeah, he's not in a good place at all. I guess you'll see what will happen soon. I don't think you have to have an eating disorder to at least partially understand what it must be like. Everyone, like you said, sometimes has unhealthy thoughts towards that kind of thing. I think some people can't always tell which side of their brain is the logical one, certainly for Alex, if not eating is what he's been taught for years, it become logic because it keeps him out of danger. You sound like you know something about this, who is anyone to judge who can and can not talk about this stuff?**

 **Caroline Phillips: thank you?**

 **Liz (reviews one and two): I think we all see Lafayette as quite mature and father like but in this chapter I think we see the more teenage, immature side of him. Thanks, I try to make my descriptions nice. Sometimes I like them, sometimes they sound kinda pretentious.**

 **LamsPickles: Just you wait, Just yoouuuu waaaiiit.**

 **GUEST: eek.**

 **By the way, I know John Laurens was the oldest in real life but in this I've given him one older brother, Henry, who in real life was younger. Call it artistic license, I don't know. Oh, I've also missed Lafayette's birthday... so I think I'll put it in December... I'm sorry!**

 **Trigger warnings: Unhealthy attitude towards eating, self-hate, mention of abuse, mention of bullying, references to suicide.**

A gentle knocking sound rang through the room, dull and muffled against the strong wood of Alex's door, abruptly pulling the teenager awake.

Alex groaned slightly and propped himself up on his elbows, resting his chin on his palm and watching the door with heavily lidded eyes and a sleep glazed gaze.

He didn't want to look or be looked at right now, instead going for the more reclusive option of simply calling out to the person outside.

"What is it?"

His voice was hoarse and grainy, it was all too obvious he'd only just woken up and not from a particularly pleasant sleep either.

Martha's voice replied, not exactly commanding or angry but firm. It wasn't a tone that one in theory might think would suit her, a five foot four petite woman, but in actuality, she proved a rather regimental figure.

"Dinner, Alex. I'd like you to eat something."

 _Meirda, did she know he'd thrown out breakfast?_

He cleared his throat slightly and sat up quickly, making his posture straighter as though she could see him. It was funny, the effect a voice could have on someone.

"I- Do I have to? I'm not all that hungry."

This was of course, an outright lie. He was as hungry as he had been when Pace had locked the kitchen for days on end and the meals at school cost more than the dime he'd had in his pocket. He was hungrier than all the times the Harveys had fed his food to the strays when he'd forgotten to vacuum or when they'd refused to give him money for school lunch because he'd talked back.

Martha's tone didn't rise, he'd had yet to experience her yell at him, but it did seem more exasperated. Less indulgent than her usual attitude around him.

"Alex, I'd really like if you ate something. It's only a light meal."

He sighed and got up, made sure the sleeves of his hoodie were rolled down and opened the door.

Martha smiled slightly at him and reached a small, delicate hand out to tuck a strand of his hair behind his ear.

"I just worry about how little you eat, George is home now. He wants to make sure you have dinner too."

Alex had been about to shrug and smile appreciatively, but the mention of George's name brought him crashing back to reality. He would have to sit at the same table as him, be silently or maybe even not so silently hated by him. He felt his shoulders slump a little and Martha seemed to notice his sudden pallor.

She hesitated slightly, realising she'd said the wrong thing.

"No conversations tonight... If you don't what to. I just want you to eat something, that's all."

He nodded, resigned and followed his foster mother down the stairs, their footsteps falling into naturally into sync, his softer than her more assured ones so that a strange sort of thumping percussion harmony was created.

Dinner was set out on the table when he walked in behind Martha, it was noodles or something of the like tonight. That was hardly a light meal, he thought to himself.

Heavy carbohydrates like noodles or pasta sit in your stomach like lead weights.

He obstinately refused to make eye contact with either George or Lafayette, both of whom undoubtedly harboured strong feelings of anger and resentment towards him at the current moment.

It struck him that it was likely they'd both resented him from the very start. Even Martha, the person in the family who had been most forgiving and friendly towards him these last few months was starting to seem weary and jaded in his presence. She was probably the reason he'd been taken in by the family.

Normally mothers want a new child to fuss over and care for when their other foster child becomes less of a novelty. Maybe it was like he'd said to George the day before. Maybe they just needed a troubled teenager to 'fix'; cusion their consciences a little.

Alexander took a deep breath and stopped himself, horrified. Why was he thinking these things about the Washingtons? It was no doubt all three of them were worn out from his pathetic neediness and insatiable urge to self destruct, but he had no qualms in believing their reasons for fostering him were of good, kind intentions.

They were just a loving, caring family that didn't know what they were getting themselves into with him. This was his fault, the unhappiness here was a by-product of his malaise, not of the lack of foresight or well meaning on the Washingtons' part.

He picked up his knife and fork with unsteady, almost numb fingers and watched the rest of the family start to eat. He counted to thirty before slowly twisting the noodles around his fork, the habit of starting to eat last still one at the forefront of his mind at mealtimes.

He ate the first mouthful and instantly was hungry for more. He then realised the last time he'd eaten might have actually been the day he'd stayed at home after the cinema, or else a small snack after the hospital the afternoon before.

He chewed slowly, exercising every ounce of his will power to not throw himself into the task of self preservation. Asceticism was of the up most importance right now, in front of the Washingtons he couldn't let on how _hungry_ he really was.

Alex took a sip of water and watched George over the rim of his glass, his eyes fixed on an area just past his ear so that if the man looked up he could pass his stare off as looking at something just over his shoulder.

His foster father looked tired. This wasn't surprising to Alexander. Although George was a man who seemed to cope well under pressure, he currently had to look after a self-destructive, temperamental teenager who was simultaneously too nervous to leave the house and too insolent for his own good— and all the while run a campaign for his own seat in the Senate against republican politicians all doing their best to drag him down; trip him up with petty jibes and school yard taunts.

In Alex's opinion that must transcend mere 'pressure'. He started to think of synonyms.

Adversity, stress, burden.

Burden. That was him alright. It didn't matter what the Washingtons told him. If they were telling the truth when they said they were worried about him, then he could fairly assume that meant he was burden on them. If they had lied and they didn't care about him in the way they said, well, doesn't looking after a foster teen you hate qualify as a burden?

Either way; they'd be better off without him.

He realised his gaze was still fixed on a point just next to George's face and that the larger man had stopped eating and was watching him.

He slowly slid his gaze away from the spot over George's shoulder, turning his attention the the condensation on the side of Lafayette's glass. He could feel his foster father's eyes on him still and wondered if George knew Alex had realised he was watching him. He bridled slightly but kept his focus on his plate, not shifting his eyes to anywhere in the vicinity of his foster father's face.

He laid his knife and fork back down on his plate, crossed together over the food in an 'x' symbol.

The room was unusually silent. Dinners here were normally chatty, lively. Alex didn't often take part in the flow of conversation or the jokes the three of them would crack at eachother but the absence of it seemed out of place. Like this was one of those odd dreams where everything is normal apart from the fact that one detail is slightly off, large enough to be noticeable but inexplicably ignored by everyone else.

Yeah, it felt like one of those dreams. The elephant in the room- one could say that. He was the elephant. There in everyone's presence but undiscussed and taboo.

He felt his fingers drum a restless beat on the edge of the table and his jaw was gritted tightly together, the muscles tense and almost pained.

He imagined clenching down so hard he could spit bloody molars and incisors into his sink and smile with broken china teeth.

But that was impossible, even if he tried. The human jaw has enough power to do so but the brain subconsciously stops the muscles from exerting enough pressure to do any damage. He'd read this in some textbook at his old school, that no matter how hard you try the opposing forces if your biology work against you.

Martha cleared her throat slightly and Alex jumped, realising he'd been staring at the same spot in the distance for a few minutes now. He braced his hands against the table as though ready to push himself out of his chair and flee. A nervous habit.

Martha pretended to ignore this and smiled at him, pushing some hair behind her ear.

"Alex, how is- How is 'The Kite Runner' going?"

She turned to George and Lafayette, her finger bouncing lightly on the table.

"He's reading it at school, you know."

Lafayette nodded slightly and let out a soft 'huh'.

"It's-it's good."

Alex began chopping a noodle into tiny pieces with the side of his fork.

Martha looked slightly disheartened but nodded and grinned anyway.

"Gil, what book are you studying?"

He looked up from his meal momentarily, his fork halfway to his mouth.

"The Kite Runner, aussi."

He had finished his meal now and Alex eyed his frame. Healthy looking, strong. Not brittle or drowned in fabric. He wandered if he would look more like that if he found the time or the will to eat more often.

Glancing around at the other plates on the table, he was the only one left with food on it still to be eaten. It felt like when you come into school on pride day and you're the only one not wearing school colours. He coughed a little and put another fork full of noodles into his mouth, chewing slowly and staring straight ahead while he did it.

George had stood up now and was collecting their plates and glasses. He got to Alex and made piercing eye contact, raising one eyebrow inquisitively and looking at his plate.

"Not hungry?"

His tone was brusque but Alex could detect a hint of something sheepish or maybe even humorous in it. A vain attempt at a jovial attitude.

Alex inwardly seethed at this. How could he just waltz up to him, like everything was normal and know how they'd argued the previous day? Wasn't he furious at Alex? He should be. He knew he himself was.

Alexander threw a glare at George under the dark strands of hair falling around his eyes.

"No."

He saw the man raise his eyebrows even further, reproached lines appearing on his forehead, but he didn't wait around to be yelled at or hit. He stood up and put the plate slightly too forcefully into his foster father's hands.

"Thanks for dinner."

His tone was abrupt, irritated; he didn't want to deal with this shit right now.

Alexander turned on his heel, his posture rigid and marched out of the room, fists tightly clenched and chin stuck in the air defiantly.

oo

George watched Alex storm out of the dining room, his hand frozen in the act of picking up an empty glass. He heard footsteps patter rapidly up the stairs, the sound of Alex's anger getting quieter and quieter until he heard a door slam distantly. Further up the house, no doubtedly Alex's room.

He turned around, the glass clutched in his hand and his knuckles white. Martha was stood by the sink with her arms folded and her expression wooden. Lafayette was watching the place where Alex had been just thirty seconds ago, his eyes wide as saucers.

"I only asked if he was hungry..."

George held up his hands, his own expression completely bemused and indignant.

Lafayette raised one eyebrow, an ability that he and George shared which Martha had always found amusing.

"Uhh... Did I miss something?"

George put the glass in the sink and glanced at Martha. A knowing look passed between them and George cleared his throat, snapping his gaze away from his wife and turning on the tap.

"It's fine Gil. Do you have any homework to do for tomorrow?"

His foster son looked at him incredulously, put down the glass he was holding and folded his arms.

"Firstly, tomorrow is Saturday in case you didn't notice, secondly, don't try and change the subject."

Martha put a plate in the cupboard and sent George a ' _It's_ _your problem not mine'_ look, busying herself with tidying away.

"Alex is just stressed, I am too. We all are."

He didn't elaborate, instead wiping down the kitchen counter with a cloth while Martha pushed a tablet into the dishwasher.

"Is there something I should know that I don't?"

George sighed and dropped the cloth into the sink before washing his hands.

"No. Just- just go and see if he's alright, okay?"

Lafayette huffed and the baby hairs that hung around his forehead quivered.

"I don't know why you're acting so secretive, tout à coup."

 _All of a sudden_

Lafayette shot Martha a reciprocal look of irritation and turned out of the kitchen without a word, his arms folded and a frown remaining on his face.

He jogged up the stairs, Lafayette never walked; he had too much spare, unspent energy and stopped in front of Alex's room. Hesitantly, he reached up a fist to knock at the door, rapping firmly three times against the wood.

"Alexandre? Tous va bien?"

 _Is everything okay?_

He heard a rustling sound and footsteps moving muffled across the carpet.

Lafayette heard the lock on the other side of the door being slid open and stepped back a few centimetres, his stomach twisting in concern.

Alexander opened the door a few moments later and smiled weakly at him, his expression defeated and his posture tired.

"Laf, quoi de neuf?"

 _Laf, what's up?_

Lafayette stepped past him into the room and flopped down onto his bed, hands clasped together underneath his head.

"Tous va bien, oui, non?"

 _Is everything okay, yes or no?_

He surveyed Alex with keen, shrewd eyes causing the younger teenager to shrink away slightly, uncomfortable with being watched.

"Je vais bein. Ne t'en fais pas pour moi."

 _I'm fine, don't worry about me._

Lafayette gave the biggest eye roll Alex had ever seen, his eyebrows raised and his mouth twisted in a frown.

Alex quickly changed the subject, turning his attention to the first thing that popped into his brain.

"No school tomorrow. At least we won't have to see Lee."

Lafayette shrugged and toyed with an eraser on Alex's desk.

"Qu'est que tu veux faire?"

 _What do you want to do?_

Alex leant against the desk and frowned, his eyes dark in the dim lighting. He fiddled with the string on his hoodie, not making eye contact with Lafayette.

"Je-Je ne sais pas. I mean... If Martha or George are busy, want me out of the house for a bit I can go to the library or-"

 _I don't know._

Lafayette furrowed his eyebrows and shook his head in exasperation and astonishment.

"No, bien sûr que non, I thought we could do something for fun."

 _No, of course not._

Alex looked up for a second, meeting his foster brother's eyes for a moment, a conflicted expression clear there.

"For fun..."

He echoed, as though trying out the words on his tongue.

"Yeah. You see, it's this thing people have sometimes, normally with friends and or-"

"I get it."

Alex interrupted shortly, scowling at his foster brother. Lafayette rolled his eyes and sat up again, kicking his heels against the side of Alex's bed.

"Can we talk about Lee and Frederick, Alexandre?"

His face was suddenly serious, older looking. Sometimes Alex forgot they were only fifteen. Well, soon to be sixteen. It felt like he'd already lived more than once. He tended to compartmentalize his life, his childhood before his father left, his childhood after his father left, the group home, New York.

"I-I... What is there to say?"

Lafayette patted the space of bed next to him but Alex didn't sit. He hopped onto the edge of his desk and perched there instead, surveying the taller teenager with apprehension.

"So much. Like how long this has been going on for?"

Alex said nothing and rolled a pen between his fingers.

"Huh?"

Lafayette was evidently impatient now, his foot tapping rapidly against the carpeted floor.

"Since the first week of school, if you must know."

He wasn't looking at his foster brother but heard his noise of angry exclamation very clearly.

"Putain, Alex! This is ridiculous - do you know how bad this could have gotten? Charles Lee is fucking insane. I've known him since middle school."

Alex closed his eyes and took in a deep breath, his hands clenched tightly around his pen.

"Do you think I don't know that?"

Lafayette threw his hands in the air and sat up straighter, his shoulders back and his feet planted firmly on the ground.

"All the more reason to do something about it, merde!"

Alex slid of the desk and clenched his fist, furious.

"You have no effing clue Laf."

His foster brother laughed mirthlessly and smacked his hand on his thigh, his eyes full of anger and upset.

"Oh, I think I do. Lee made my life hell all last year, but you know what, the first time he hit me I told someone. I didn't just lie back and take it!"

His voice shook slightly and his eyes were shining with frustrated tears, not likely to spill over his cheeks but the kind that stung and embarrassed you anyway.

"I'm sorry. In my experience, telling people shit only gets me hurt worse."

His voice was low and quiet. It wasn't the same trembling yell he'd used with George yesterday, his energy was spent. He couldn't be bothered to deal with this right now. God, he just wanted to sleep.

"Alex, things are different now! You're with us."

The shorter boy scoffed. His face resentful and pensive

"Took the Harveys a month to hit me for the first time."

Lafayette gaped at him, his muscles tensed up and his eyebrows scrunched in confusion.

"Maman, Papa, they would never..."

Alex looked indifferent and shrugged.

"I'm only making the point that I never know what to expect."

He started shuffling through the papers on his desk and Lafayette saw him gathering up spilt stationary from across his desk. A pen or two, a ruler, a compass.

"Alex- I- You can talk to me."

His foster brother made no move to turn and face him, there was a subtle shrug of the shoulders and silence punctuated by the ticking of a small clock on the window ledge.

"I'm tired Laf. I'd kinda just like to go to bed."

"C'est huit heurs et dix."

 _It's ten past eight._

Alex shrugged and closed his pencil case, finally turning around to face his foster brother.

"I'm tired."

Lafayette scowled and stood up again, moving towards the door.

"You know, it's easy not to feel so tired. Most people just sleep. Maybe if you did you wouldn't pass out all the time- make me miss school."

He walked out of the room then, his face set angrily and his eyes set ahead of him, not moving to rest on his foster brother.

He closed the door behind him. It wasn't a slam, but it wasn't exactly gentle either. The noise echoed very slightly through his room and he could still hear Lafayette's angry footsteps across the hall. He had a wooden floor in his room. Whenever he moved around Alex could hear it. He often paced up and down in the evenings. Alex was never sure if it was because he was calling someone or if it was just a habit.

He rubbed his eyes and stretched, lying back on the bed. He was too tired, too numb to be properly shocked or taken aback by Lafayette's words. He knew it all anyway. He'd said it to himself enough times that it had lost its shock value.

He'd forced Lafayette to go out of his way for him. He just fucked everything up because of his stupidity. You're going to pass out if you don't sleep. No shit, Sherlock.

He dug his fingernails tightly into the skin of his forearm and his gaze fall on the Prozac and iron sitting on his table. He wondered how many pills were left in each box. It was a month's prescription, with two pills for each day. It was half way through the month so maybe about thirty of the Prozac and thirty of the iron. That was a whole of pills.

Enough?

He swallowed and turned onto his other side, closing his eyes and taking deep breaths. The image of those pills on his table were burnt into the backs of his eyelids.

oo

Lafayette rolled over and groaned as a patch of light filtered through the curtains and fell upon his face. He fumbled on his bedside table and clumsily unplugged his phone from where it was charging.

He blinked a few times and yawned, sitting up in bed and kicking the bed cover back over his feet.

 _Three new messages from Hercules-Mulligan at 7:56, 8:00 and 8:03_

 _Hercules-Mulligan (fifteen minutes ago): We doing anything today?_

 _Hercules-Mulligan (eleven minutes ago): Coffee?_

 _Hercules-Mulligan (eight minutes ago): If John is busy we can do something together._

Lafayette smiled to himself, still not fully awake but his heart beating slightly faster than it usually would at this early hour.

 _One new message from John at 8:46_

 _John (twenty five minutes ago): My nose hurts like a bitch, you?_

Lafayette pressed his finger to his lower lip and winced, the cut still stung painfully to the touch and now that he was feeling it, he realised the area around the injury was quite swollen. As for his chin and palms, one quick look in the camera on his phone told him they had scabbed over to create a less than pretty sight.

 _Lafrançasie (just now): I look like crap. Much to do today?_

He had only to wait a few seconds before his phone buzzed and John had responsed.

 _John (just now): I have to grab some stuff from my house. My dad will be out so I'll do it then._

Lafayette sighed and tapped a quick response, the bright white of his phone screen causing his eyes to blur, making his text full of typos.

 _Lafrançasie (just now): Stay away from him, I'm worried baout you. He careful. Hang afterwards?_

 _Lafrançasie (just now): *about_

 _Lafrançasie (just now): *be_

 _John (just now): I will. Yeah. Yours or nah?_

Lafayette took a moment to consider this. He and John weren't on the best terms with Alexander at the moment and he thought it might be poor judgement on his part to put the three of them in a situation wherein they might argue.

 _Lafrançasie (just now): Nah. Coffee? Nous allons pouvoir étudier donc tu apportes ton portable et je vais apporter mes manuels._

 _We can study so you bring your laptop and I'll bring my textbooks._

It was funny how easily he slipped from French into English. He tended to only do it with people he'd spoken French with before or when he was emotional. Normally it happened with longer, more complex sentences or with words he knew he wouldn't be able to pronounce properly in English. He was proud of his English though, in the last two years it had gotten to a respectable level in which he could jump out of the language and into another very quickly.

 _John (just now): d'ac. My laptop is at my dad's, I'll pick it up and be at yours for like mid day?_

 _Lafrançasie (just now): Cool. Herc is going to come over. Then we can go get coffee quand tu viens._

 _John (just now): hmmm. You're crushing on him aren't you?_

Lafayette grinned to himself and felt his throat tighten, but not exactly in a bad way. In a kinda exited way; the expectant gulp of adrenaline when the rollercoaster reaches the pique of the hill.

 _Lafrançasie (just now): ugh. You can't talk. I'm not the one who got caught making out with their supposed 'friend'._

 _John (just now): ugh. I'll see you soon, d'accord._

 _Lafrançasie (just now): d'ac_

Lafayette texted Hercules next, taking longer than he had with John to check over his texts and figure out what his exact words would be.

 _Lafrançasie (just now): Coffee sounds good. Come to mine first, we can hang here until John arrives then get some coffee (:_

He bit his lip and waited for a response, tapping restlessly on the side of his phone. It dinged and he looked down at it instantly, he'd been quick to respond...

 _Hercules-Mulligan (just now): Sounds good. John told me the plan, we just got up._

 _Hercules-Mulligan sent a photo_

Lafayette opened the photo and grinned. It was of John and Hercules, the former teenager with a mug of coffee half way to his mouth, his hair a wreck and Hercules in the foreground grinning.

 _Lafrançasie (just now): Ha! It's 8:10 now. Do you want to be over for nine?_

 _Hercules-Mulligan (just now): Yeah, sounds good._

Lafayette got out of bed and stripped off his pyjamas, walking to the shower and texting Hercules again.

 _Lafrançasie (just now): if you haven't eaten breakfast yet, you can have it here. I'm going to get maman to make pancakes._

 _Hercules-Mulligan (just now): you're just in time, I was about to start making something. Sounds good tho._

Lafayette adjusted the heat settings on the shower and pulled his hair out of its ponytail.

 _Lafrançasie (just now): Imma get ready. See you soon._

 _Hercules-Mulligan (just now): Cool. See ya._

oo

John nervously fiddled with the end of his jacket as he drew nearer and nearer to his house. He knew his father would be out, he always had meetings on Saturday mornings with other republicans in the district. On top of this, his car was gone, so there was no chance he would run into the man.

He walked up the driveway and pulled out his key. Luckily he'd remembered to bring it that morning a couple of days ago. He wasn't too sure who was home, he didn't want to wake any of his siblings up either.

He slid the key into the lock and opened up, immediately being greeted with the smell of toast and the sound of feminine laughter in the kitchen.

"Hello?"

He called out down the hallway, his curiosity piqued. His sister was ten, whoever was laughing didn't sound that young at all.

He walked down the hallway and into the kitchen, relaxing somewhat when he saw his older brother Henry leant against the kitchen counter, his girlfriend Helena standing next to him.

"Hey Henry."

They had always been on pretty good terms, he and his brother. Only two and a half years apart, they were quite different but got on well.

Henry was more similar to their mother than their father. He had lighter skin than John did but shared his curly hair. Although, whereas John kept his quite long, Henry had the sides of his shaved and the section at the top mid length so that it sat in large curls there. He was still in pyjamas and had a concerned expression on his face when he turned to speak to his brother.

"John, it's good to see you. Is everything okay? I know shit's been going down but..."

John shrugged and sat up on the kitchen stool.

"Dad doesn't like me going out with boys, as you know."

Henry smiled ruefully and wrapped his arm around Helena's waist. She was a pretty girl. Brown hair, glasses and fair skin. He'd always liked her. He remembred the two had met in a social studies course last year. They both went to NYU and had recently rented an apartment together in downtown New York.

She frowned at Henry and looked at John, her face sympathetic but not patronizing.

"Your dad is like that, huh?"

John and Henry nodded vigorously in unison, the years in their upbringing of strict Christian, conservative teachings still branded into their minds.

Henry took a sip from a mug behind him. He winced at the evidently burning drink and coughed awkwardly.

"What happened exactly? He didn't catch you with a boy did-"

"No!"

John shook his head violently and sighed, running a hand through his hair.

"I went out with a guy in my year, didn't really make much effort to hide it."

Henry sighed and Helena ran a hand through the curls atop his head.

"He didn't tell me; did he kick you out or did you leave?"

John picked up his brother's mug and took a sip; coffee.

"He threatened to kick me out but then the morning after the date we had an argument. He hit me Henry, he's never hit any of us!"

Henry slid his arm from his girlfriend's waist and draped it over John's shoulder. Helena looked on, her small face upset and frightened looking.

"So you walked out?"

John nodded and scowled, remembering the morning it had all happened.

"Who's the boy?"

John looked up surprised and tried to suppress a smile. Unfortunately, Hnery noticed and laughed.

"Is he nice, cute?"

John sighed and nodded, pulling away from his brother and sitting back on the stool.

"Yeah. You know Lafayette?"

Henry grinned again and glanced at Helena, who looked confused. John didn't blame her, Lafayette wasn't exactly a normal name, at least not in America.

"French kid George Washington fosters. Well, actually, they adopted him didn't they?"

John nodded and took another sip of his brother's coffee. Henry rolled his eyes and took it back, putting it where John couldn't reach it again.

"Yeah. Well, they took in another kid like two or three months ago. He's our age. Name's Alexander Hamilton."

Helena looked up in surprise, her face showing something akin to recognition.

John's eyes widened. Helena was from downtown New York, where Alex had lived prior to the Washingtons' house.

Henry turned to his girlfriend, his eyebrows raised.

"You know him?"

She nodded slowly and shrugged.

"Not well. Used to frequent an internet café I worked at last year. He stopped coming though, I didn't think too much about it. Quiet kid. I don't really know why I remember his name."

John nodded, "that sounds like him. Latino? Short?"

Helena nodded and put her arm back around Henry's shoulder.

Henry nodded approvingly, "where's he from?"

John grinned, knowing his brother would like the answer.

"Carribbean. Like us, with a bit of French too I think."

Henry grinned and took another sip of his coffee, his face falling back to seriousness a second later.

"So, what are you doing here. Coming home to stay or..."

John shook his head and pulled off his jacket, slinging it over his arm.

"I'm picking up a few things. My laptop, more clothes, money."

Henry frowned and took a step towards his brother, taking his shoulder gently.

"Where are you living anyway? With Lafayette?"

John shook his head, sighing.

"I'm safe, it's okay. I'm living with Herc right now. His place is near the York. Not too far."

Henry's face visibly relaxed and he nodded.

"I like that kid, good."

John rolled his eyes and pushed his brother playfully.

"'Kid'? We're only like two years younger than you."

Helena laughed and put a hand on John's back, her expression fond. John grinned at her and stepped away, walking towards the kitchen door.

"When will dad be back?"

Henry exhaled slowly and filled a glass up with water at the sink.

"You have like half an hour. He's coming back earlier today, I won't tell him you were here."

John nodded and moved out into the hallway, then he stopped in his tracks and poked his head back into the kitchen.

"And if he asks?"

Henry hesitated for a moment before grinning, "I'll tell him you came to grab stuff. The truth. I think that would infuriate him more than if he thought you didn't come back."

John laughed, "thanks."

He walked quietly back upstairs and passed his younger siblings' rooms silently, careful not to wake them.

He pulled his charger from the plug socket and wrapped it around his laptop, which he'd left lying on his bed. He put it into a tote bag hanging from his door handle and pulled some pairs of boxers, jeans and some shirts out of his drawer and packed them into his bag. He fumbled under his bed for the tin of savings he'd stashed there for specifically this occasion and dumped the contents onto his lap.

$235 and 56¢ fell onto his denim clad thighs and he smiled slightly. All that saving had paid off.

John threw everything back into the tin and packed that away too, finally throwing in a library book that was overdue as an after thought. He didn't want to come back here agin for a while.

He pulled his jacket back on and left the tote bag on the landing, stepping quietly into Martha and Mary's room. He sat down right on the edge of Martha's bed and tickled her playfully through the covers. She squirmed a little and woke up, a small laugh on her lips.

"Jacky!"

She squealed happily and flung her arms around his neck, her long hair brushing his cheek softly.

He blinked back the traces of tears in his eyes and laughed, reciprocating the hug.

"I missed you Martha, have you been good?"

His younger sister nodded, her fringe bobbing eagerly with the movement. In the bed on the other side of the room, he heard his youngest sister Mary stirring.

"Jacky?"

Her voice was husky with sleep and high with youth, she was only just five years old.

He grinned at Martha and moved over to Mary's bed, wrapping his arms gently around her small body.

"I missed you, how's school?"

She smiled sleepily at him and tapped the freckles on his nose with a small, gentle finger.

"Fun! Daddy's been really quiet all week Jack. Is it because of you? He says you're sick and have to stay somewhere else."

John choked slightly and shook his head, brushing Mary's hair from her eyes.

"No, I'm not sick Mary. I just like boys."

Mary frowned, her small mouth pouting in a concentrated manner.

"Like how Henry likes Helena?"

He smiled and nodded, tickling her under the arm gently.

"Yeah. Like that."

She rubbed her eyes sleepily and John looked around to where Martha had sat up in her bed.

"Are you... _gay_?"

He sighed, Martha was nearly eleven. He supposed she must have some idea about these sorts of things.

He nodded wearily and Martha frowned.

"Dad always says that's its wrong to be... _gay_."

She whispered the word gay as though it was a swear, though John supposed in their house it might as well have been.

John shook his head, "dad is wrong. It's not his fault, he just doesn't really understand."

She nodded slowly and got up, waking towards him still clutching her teddy by its ear.

"Are you coming back for good?"

John shook his head and stood up. He had to leave now, otherwise he'd end up running into his father. He did not want that to happen.

"I have to go Martha. Mary, be good at school. I'll drop around as soon as I can, okay?"

She nodded and hugged him, her head coming up to just above his elbow.

"Don't be gone for too long, okay?"

He nodded and pressed a quick kiss to hers and Mary's forehead in return.

"I'll be back, don't worry."

He left the room quickly and picked up his tote bag, walking back downstairs towards the kitchen.

oo

Henry watched as his younger brother disappeared around the door frame and listened to his footsteps patterning quickly up the stairs. He sighed and leant against the kitchen counter, sipping his mug.

"John's a good kid. He doesn't deserve all this."

Helena sighed and leant her head against his shoulder, tracing her finger in small circles on his bicep.

"I remember Alexander Hamilton's name for a reason, Henry."

He looked down at her, a few inches or so taller and frowned.

"Why?"

She pushed herself up onto the kitchen counter and looked out into the garden, her eyes scanning the trees and shrubs intently.

"Every time I saw him he was covered in bruises. I asked my boss about it once, he said he'd been coming in like that for God knows how long."

Henry bit his lip and looked at the spot John had been a moment earlier.

"Reckon John knows?"

Helena shrugged and frowned for a moment, lines appearing on her usually smooth forehead.

"Well, foster parents get files on their kids normally. If not, they get a briefing by the agency. The parents probably know. I don't know about John."

Henry drew in a deep breath and put down his coffee, he could hear faint noises of laughter and chatter upstairs and smiled sadly to himself.

He was eighteen years old, broke and not sure of many things.

He was sure however, that John didn't fucking deserve this.

 **I wanted to get this out quick so I only proof read it once or twice. I probably caught like 99% of my mistakes but forgive me if I didn't. Review and follow/ favourite if you like!**


	24. Chapter 24

**Hello! Thanks for the reviews, as usual, you guys are so cool.**

 **I hope you're enjoying this story so far. I just want to say that there's a major trigger warning on this chapter, please, heed it. Especially if you're recovering from suicidal thoughts or currently having them. Stay safe, please. There are hotlines in my profile. I don't condone suicide, I'm simply trying to represent the thoughts and emotions behind it in an accurate way. There are other options, it is never your only choice.**

 **Trigger warnings: suicidal thoughts, plans on suicide, mention of bullying, self hate.**

Lafayette smiled and dropped his phone on the bed, as the shrill sound of the door bell rang through the house.

He hurtled down the stairs, two at a time and opened the front door with a smirk on his face. Hercules looked up when he opened the door, his hands stuffed in his pockets and his eyes bright, gleaming against his dark skin. His eyes ran over the injury's on Lafayette's face and his expression hardened somewhat. Band aids had been applied to his chin and hands and his lip was swollen, a read blotch across his lower lip.

"Salut, come on in."

Lafayette stepped aside and Hercules jumped past the threshold, his gait still energetic. It was as though just by being in eachother's presence a mutual air of excitement was created around them.

"Are Mr and Mrs Washington up yet?"

Lafayette chuckled and raised his eyebrows, his eyes crinkling with amusement.

"Every time they see you they ask you to call them George and Martha, it's been years Herc!"

Hercules rubbed the back of his head sheepishly and shrugged.

"Raised that way I guess. So, are _George and Martha_ up yet?"

Lafayette smirked and shook his head, glancing at his watch.

"Papa always wakes up early. It's nearly nine so he'll be down soon. Maman might be a little longer."

Hercules nodded and walked with Lafayette into the kitchen. He pulled out a chair and sat down while Lafayette pulled two mugs from the cupboard and began spooning instant coffee into each one.

"Is your face alright Laf?"

He couldn't keep the concern out of his voice, it became softer and the humour it had carried before was subdued slightly. Lafayette turned around, his eyes softened and he nodded.

"Yeah. It doesn't hurt all that much. My lip is just a bit swollen."

Hercules nodded slowly and they fell into comfortable silence. There's a point of friendship you reach with someone in which silence between you is as natural as talking, as ordinary and contented too. There's also a point in friendship where it sometimes becomes more than the aforementioned title, but that's getting ahead of things.

Lafayette put the coffee down in front of his friend and warmed his hands on the warm ceramic of his own mug.

"Alex okay?"

Hercules watched Lafayette over the rim of his glass shrewdly, his friend's face darkened slightly and Hercules made a small of knowing.

"He's too stubborn to say anything about well... anything!"

Hercules swallowed his mouthful of the drink and shrugged.

"I don't think that's really his fault. It's the way he's been conditioned to act."

Lafayette huffed and pushed some hair from his eyes. It was out in a large afro, still damp and drying from his shower.

"I just wish he would talk to me more. He used to. He'd come to me if he was upset about something, he'd talk about shit, you know?"

Hercules nodded and spoke again.

"What do you think changed?"

Lafayette shrugged and thought for a moment, looking pensively out the window.

"I guess Charles Lee and George Frederick. School was kinda the turning point. God, j'espère qu'ils brûleront en enfer."

Hercules smiled slightly and drank another mouthful of his coffee. Lafayette did the same, though his movements were angrier. It was more like he was taking a shot than a sip of morning coffee and he brought the mug down on the table hard, the liquid almost spilling over the sides of the blue ceramic.

"I worry about him a lot, he doesn't take care of himself."

Hercules stared into his coffee for a moment before picking up his mug and tipping some into his mouth.

"Why do you think that is?"

Lafayette laughed slightly bitterly at that, "you sound like a fucking therapist."

Hercules laughed shortly and glanced up at Lafayette, catching his eye and grinning. The French boy grinned back and Hercules broke the stare, slightly embarrassed.

"What is, how you say, their deal? George and Lee. You've known them longer than I have."

Hercules put his coffee down and thought for a moment.

"Well... Lee has pretty much always been an asshole. Since elementary school he was throwing rubbers at people and tripping us up at recess."

Lafayette grunted slightly, as though agreeing and motioned for Hercules to continue.

"George, he was bullied in like fifth and sixth grade. I used to feel sorry for him. I think that's how he became friends with Lee. He stood up for him, used to beat up anyone who tried to hurt George. I guess they had stuff in common, being Briish mainly."

Lafayette let out a quiet 'huh' and looked into his coffee. He'd always gotten the impression George was more introverted and less aggressively inclined than his friend. There was a kind of leader/ follower dynamic to their relationship that had been brought into relief the prior day. George had wanted to leave, he hadn't wanted trouble. Lee however, Lee had thirsted for it.

"Do you think Alex will be up yet?"

Lafayette shrugged and looked up towards the ceiling. We're they directly under Alex's room? Hercules wasn't sure.

"I asked if he wanted to hang today. He didn't give me a straight answer. With him that usually means no."

Hercules sighed and drained the last of his coffee, grimacing slightly when the unstirred, grimy texture of residue coffee power met his tongue.

"John went home?"

Hercules nodded, "he was just leaving when I got here. He texted me. I reckon he'll be here sooner than mid day, shouldn't take him too long."

Lafayette nodded and took their mugs over to the sink. He rinsed them out quickly and motioned for Hercules to follow him to the living room.

"Let's watch some TV or something."

oo

An hour or so later, Lafayette and Hercules were lain across the sofa lazily, watching TV with their legs tangled together on the pouf in front of them.

Lafayette had leant his head closer to Hercules' bicep, prompting the taller boy to chuckle internally and shuffle slightly closer to the French teen.

Halfway through the third episode of the show they were watching, Hercules' phone buzzed and he picked it up, glancing at the screen before holding it up to Lafayette.

 _John (just now): Be at yours in two minutes. Get your stuff, we'll leave as soon as I get there._

Lafayette stretched his arms and stood up, leaving the side of Hercules' arm and parts of his calves still warm from where Lafayette's body had been moments prior.

The French teen stood up and darted out of the room, his footsteps hammered excitedly on the stairs and he called out to Hercules as he ran.

"I'm just grabbing my stuff!"

"Okay!"

Hercules walked into the hallway, pulling on his bomber and the boots he'd chosen to match the lining of his jacket. He and Lafayette shared a similar trait of fashion consciousness both John and Alex seemed to lack of at least care little about. John was doing art with him this year so he at least matched colours well, although, Hercules often found himself dispairing over the wasted potential of some of his items.

Lafayette came down a moment with his jacket and shoes on, a messenger bag slung over his shoulder and his hair tied up.

"Did you ask Alex if he wanted to come?"

Lafayette sighed and jumped the last few steps, landing on the wooden floor with a small crash. Everywhere the teenager went there was noise, he tended to run and jump around a lot.

"I wanted to but his bedroom door is locked and I didn't want to knock in case he was asleep."

Hercules shrugged and nodded, zipping up his jacket. Lafayette eyed the movement and bit his lip, stepping forwards and adjusting the jacket so that the top of Hercules' shirt collar wasn't poking out from underneath. They were quite close now, if Hercules took a step inwards they'd be nose to nose.

"There, much better."

Hercules smiled at Lafayette for a moment and they locked eyes. Lafayette grinned that sideways smirk of his and patted his friend's shoulder affectionately.

"Martha's up. She feels bad she didn't get the chance to make us pancakes. And I thought I would have to beg!"

Hercules grinned and shrugged again, "we can get something in town. It doesn't matter."

Lafayette nodded and at that moment Martha appeared at the top of the stairs, wrapped in a dressing gown with her phone on her hand, scrolling ardently.

"Morning Hercules, Gil."

She smiled and put her phone into the pocket of the robe, clapping her hands together good naturedly.

"So, you're going into to town to..."

Hercules cleared his throat and straightened his posture slightly.

"Get some coffee and hopefully do some revision, ma'am."

He added in the 'ma'am' as an afterthought, smiling at Martha politely but internally wincing slightly. He sounded like such a suck up. She chuckled and ran a hand through her hair.

"You're so polite Herc, but please, ma'am makes me feel old. Martha is just fine."

Lafayette laughed and elbowed him gently in the ribs, Hercules grinned again and nodded.

"Sure thing, Martha."

Lafayette's mom smiled and she walked the few steps down so that she was level with the two teenagers. Suddenly, both Lafayette and Hercules seemed much taller than her.

"Have you asked Alex if he'd like to come?"

Her voice was more serious now, anxious even. The atmosphere in the room seemed to change and Hercules could tell Alexander was a subject of tension and concern within the household.

"I asked last night and tried to this morning. He doesn't seem to want to."

Martha bit her lip and glanced towards the top of the stairs.

"George is sleeping in today too, it's not like him. Usually he'd have been up for hours by now."

She glanced at her watch and sighed, "it's just past ten. I don't want to wake him, he's been so tired these past few days. Alex too. I think I'll let them sleep on."

Lafayette nodded and Hercules shifted his position awkwardly. To save from a tense few moments of silence, there was a knock at the door and John's voice greeted them from the porch.

Lafayette grinned and opened up, clapping his friend on the shoulder as soon as he was in sight.

John was clad in a black quilted jacket and a thick sweater. It wasn't a bad outfit; Hercules himself had helped him choose it that morning.

Martha smiled at John and he held up his hand in greeting.

"Morning Martha! George around?"

The woman grinned and shook her head, "he's sleeping late today. Deserves it, this campaign has him up all hours. How's Mr Laurens?"

The Washingtons and the Laurens weren't exactly on eachother's Christmas card lists but Martha had liked Eleanor before the couple had divorced three years ago and she'd moved to South Carolina, and of course, who could dislike John? He was so different from his father. She made it a point to ask about the family.

John hesitated for a moment.

"He's... fine."

Martha, sensing some animosity around the subject, had a vague idea of what the tensions might have been caused by and didn't probe any further.

"I'll leave you to it, have a good time and be back before it gets too dark."

Lafayette hugged his mother for a moment and whispered quickly in her ear,

"Get Alex to text me. I'm worried about him."

She nodded so slightly it was almost undetectable and smiled at him briefly before closing the front door with a final wave.

Lafayette hooked his arm around Hercules' and slapped John on the back before giving the window of Alex's bedroom one last glance. It was dark and empty looking, the navy curtain hung eerily still behind the thick glass.

Lafayette turned away and pushed thoughts of Alex from the forefront of his mind. Of course, he couldn't rid himself of them entirely. Part of his brain was always focused on his foster brother. He was always calculating the amount he'd had at dinner the previous night or the time for which had slept, how he'd been behaving... Alex was branded into Lafayette's thoughts for good now. There was no brushing him off.

oo

George lay in bed surrounded by a sea of warmth and disarray. The many blankets, usually neat and spread out on the bed were tangled and twisted like bracken. Martha was downstairs, he guessed and rolled over off his wrist to check his watch.

It was past ten. He'd not slept that late since his college years. Normally he'd have been up for more than three hours by now. He yawned and stretched, feeling his muscles stretch and throb slightly. He must have slept in an odd position, either that or he'd spent too long on the rowing machine at the gym.

Though unwelcome, this late awakening wasn't exactly surprising to him. He'd never been as tired as he had been in the last few weeks. Now that nominations for each party were official, it was only a matter of time until the primary election.

John Lee was doing his very best to make sure he didn't make it that far. Nevertheless, he worked his hardest and he fancied that Lee had given in to the inevitability that he would run against him in the coming months. The other democratic nominees were more or less formalities. It had only ever been George Washington or John Lee. Two drastically different politicians, one as left as the other was right.

George got out of bed and dressed quickly in jeans and a button down. He could hear Martha singing to herself downstairs, her voice warm and smooth as she made breakfast.

George left his room and on the way out passed Alex's door. He stopped for a moment, listening for any noises or signs the boy was awake. There was however, no light coming from underneath the door so even if he was awake, he hadn't deigned to open the curtains which most likely meant he wanted to be left alone.

George sighed and knocked gently, soft enough so that if Alexander was asleep he would not hear it but firm enough so that it would be obvious to him if he was awake.

There was no movement or whispering of blankets, no footsteps across a carpeted floor or the click of a lock sliding open. George closed his eyes for a moment then turned away, his fist which had been clenched to knock on the wood slowly unfurled and hung at his side.

He walked the few paces to the staircase and started down them, not looking back at the door behind him.

oo

Alex lay awake in bed as the sun rose, throwing steadily brighter stripes of light in through the curtains and across his bed. The sky outside was still dark when he awoke and he watched it turn from a washed out grey to a stark white, clouds creating a thick layer of protection between any blue sky and their town.

He didn't make a sound or any hint of a movement when Lafayette first stepped out onto the landing outside, his familiar gait as excitable and boundlessly energetic as usual. Nor did he move when Hercules' loud laughter greeted his foster brother from the porch some forty minutes later.

He stayed still and quiet, eventually hearing John at the door some time later. He guessed the three of them were going out. He didn't know where, nor did he particularly care. He wasn't going.

George was funnily enough, the last to wake. His heavy footsteps stopped outside Alexander's door for a few moments and he knocked gently. Alexander feigned sleep.

When he was positive that he was the only person on the upper floor of the house he sat up. He'd slept in only a tee shirt and boxers and had no plans on changing. He wasn't going to leave his room until it was absolutely necessary. Probably in a body bag.

Alexander examined his forearm for a few seconds, tracing the scabs with a hesitant finger. He supposed he should bind them with something but it seemed pointless now, besides, he'd have to go downstairs and face the Washingtons.

He turned to the mirror on the wall of the bathroom and took in his appearance. His hair was sticking up in places he hadnt even thought hair could stick up and his tee shirt reached his knees when it should have ended at his mid thigh.

It might have been one of Lafayette's that had gotten mixed up in the laundry. One of his feet was clad in a grey sock, the other was bare. Drool and tears had dried into loose strands of his hair as he'd slept and his lips were cracked and dry, devoid of much colour that wasn't crimson where he'd bitten at a piece dry skin.

He looked like he'd been living in a basement for three years.

He set about trying to remedy some of these issues, not seeing fit to wash his hair but wetting the stands around his face and rubbing them dry with a towel. He put on a fresh pair of boxers, another sock and washed his face. He felt slightly more human then, not that it really mattered.

Again, his eyes fell on the pills on his bedside table. This time though, he walked over to them and picked them up. When he slid the rows of pills out of the box the silver foil crinkled slightly and some bent sheets of instructions and side effects fell onto the table.

He counted the pills in one tray and multiplied that by the amount of trays of pills in the box. Around twenty eight of the Prozac, and since the prescription of the iron was of the same amount and taken at the same times as the Prozac, there would be twenty eight of that too.

He didn't put the pills back in their boxes, instead leaving them strewn out on the table, visible every time he let his eyes stray back there.

Next, he picked up his notebook and opened it to the last page he'd been working on. An essay about the pros and cons of affirmative action he'd started a few weeks ago and hadn't managed to finish. This was unusual for him, normally he'd jump at the chance to rip entitled republicans and sleazy centrists a new one.

He reached behind him and grabbed a pen from his desk, fingers brushing momentarily over the boxes of pills there. He snapped his hand back, pen clutched tightly between his fingers and set it to the paper. The words came, like they always did, this time in a slow procession like tired soldiers, stumbling and off the beat of the marching drum.

He wrote a sentence every few minutes or so, almost as though the ink in his pen were the words and they were running out, becoming fainter until they were only furrows in the page, until he shook the pen or pressed the nib to his tongue, at which point the words would flow again for some time, only to fade out once more.

After nearly an hour, he flipped the book shut and put it back on his desk before lying back down on his unmade bed and pulling himself further into the mess of the covers.

His mind was too hazy, too loud and crowded for him to think about anything other than escaping. Finding a way out, any way out.

He was vaguely aware of there being a persistent knocking at the door, it registered somewhere in a rather hazy compartment of his mind but he couldn't quite pull himself up, summon the energy to answer. But now, his name was being called from behind the door and there was a touch of anxiety in the voice. He sat up lethargically, stumbling slightly over a discarded sock.

"I'm- just a second."

He tugged his shirt further down so it brushed his knee caps and moved towards the door. He would pull on some jeans but he'd kept who ever it was waiting for far too long, any unnecessary day at this point seemed rude.

He slid the lock open, silently thanking whoever had installed it for its existence. God knows he didn't want who ever it was to have walked in on him staring blankly up at the ceiling like he wanted the roof to be torn off and to be sucked into space.

He pulled the door open and tugged again at the hem of his tee shirt, not making eye contact with Martha even as she cleared her throat uncomfortably.

"Are you alright in there?" She questioned, her eyes performing a quick once over of his 'literally just rolled out of bed' look.

He twitched his mouth into a quarter smile, one dimple appearing shallowly on his washed out looking cheek.

"Fine."

Martha looked over his shoulder at the unmade bed and the few items of clothing strewn across the floor.

"You haven't eaten breakfast yet, what do you want?"

Alex shrugged, indifferent at this point. Was George still around?

"Is George around?"

Martha frowned slightly but shook her head.

"No. He went out to run some errands and have a meeting with some HRC lobbyists."

Alex made a noise of (admittedly surface level) interest and shrugged.

"I ate only last night. I'm not too hungry to be honest."

To be truly honest, he didn't want to spend any more time with Martha than he had to. The guilt of being around her was too imposing and all encompassing. Best to burn his bridges now, make it hurt less. He'd already made moves towards this in the past week. It was better this way, easier now he'd managed to isolate himself from the majority of his friends and foster family.

Martha looked him up and down, obviously eyeing his bony knees and skinny ankles, sure... he _wasn't_ hungry.

"Alexander, please."

Martha reached out and took one of his hands, squeezing it in what he guessed was supposed to be a comforting manner.

He flinched at the sudden movement and reflexively, snatched his hand back.

A look of hurt flashed momentarily across Martha's face but it was quickly replaced with her usual compassion, this didn't however stop the stab of guilt to Alexander's stomach.

Alex took a step back from the door and flashed a glance to the room behind him. Martha evidently got the message that he wanted to be left alone.

"Will you have lunch later?"

Alexander didn't really want this, he'd much rather stay in his room but he sensed Martha would be intransigent on this and trying to work his way out of this seemed futile and frankly, rude.

"Of course I will."

Martha smiled again and nodded. She ran her eyes once more over his room and raised her eyebrows playfully.

"Maybe think about tidying up a little. Tell me if there's anything that should go in the laundry, okay."

Alex nodded sluggishly, already retreating back into his bedroom and making to pick up a sock at the foot of his bed. Usually he was a tidy person, in fairness, this was likely attributed to the fact he'd never had enough possessions to make a mess. He'd had to be ready to pick up his life in a moments notice and move halfway across the country these last few years.

These last few days though, the willingness to tidy up after himself had left him.

He finished quickly and lay back down on his bed, not really sure what to do. He didn't want to write. He shifted slightly, watching the shadow of the leaves from outside his window flutter on the wall across from him.

Alexander glanced at his watch. He'd woken up extremely early, maybe around five, and it was now 11:30. Martha had mentioned he should eat lunch alter and he'd agreed.

 _So much for isolating himself, goddamn it, how could he face her?_

Well, he'd have to burn that bridge when he came to it.

For now, it seemed like the only thing left to do was prepare. He looked around the room, his eyes skimming over all the surfaces and cabinets. Items here and there laid out in what seemed a meaningless agglomeration. Their place had had a purpose when he'd put them there but he didn't think it would matter from now on, he wouldn't be using any of them again.

He tidied everything on his desk into neat piles, all his pens and pencil put into his case and his books stacked into towers. He put his personal notebooks all into pile away from the rest, he'd considered burning them but... what anybody thought of the contents would mean nothing to him soon enough. Besides, he couldn't bear to destroy all of what he'd worked so hard on for years.

Next he turned to his drawers. He opened them and organised everything again, into stacks. Jeans, shirts, sweatpants, sweaters, boxers. It didn't take long.

Despite the shopping trip Lafayette had taken him on at the end of August, his wardrobe consisted of just a few pairs of jeans, a few tee shirts, one pair of sweatpants and two sweaters.

Next he made his bed, stripping the sheet off entirely, airing it out and then making the entire bed back up again as neat as he was able.

He surveyed the room, his hands on his hips. His mind was strangely blank, unsure and nervous yes, but still hazy and cast with a cloudy fog.

He thought it might have been poor judgement on his part to clear everything up before lunch, lest Martha decide to check in on the state of his room.

Well, fuck it. He was fatalistic in that way.

He straightened the piles on his desk a final time and smoothed the creases on his bed. His room now looked like one of a person just moving in.

Or moving out, if you're the type to look at it that way.

Martha was calling his name now, it sounded strange and muffled through the layers of plaster and insulation that made up the walls and floors of the house.

He closed the door after him, glad there was no one in the house who could look in at his room while he was downstairs.

He walked into the kitchen and nodded slightly at Martha. Her hair was pulled back with a thick scrunchie and she was dressed in comfortable looking jeans and a jumper, patterned with pastel coloured geometric shapes.

"I've just made some sandwiches, cheese and tomato okay?"

As though he would say no.

"Yeah, thank you."

She smiled as he sat down tensely. His back not touching the chair and his posture stiff. He didn't want to leave any of himself around the house, best he pretend he was already a ghost.

He ate slowly, the cheese was strong but in the way that meant it was expensive, not out of date like he'd been used to. The tomatoes weren't tinned. They were fresh. He still wasn't used to this, all his life canned things had been cheaper so that was what he'd eaten.

Martha sat opposite him, reading the paper. He was glad for this excuse not to talk, she must have sensed he didn't want to.

He finished not long after Martha. She'd remained at the table with him however, glancing up every so often to watch his progress.

He brought the plate to the sink and rinsed it quickly before walking to the door. When he passed Martha however, he stopped. She put down the paper and smiled at him. She'd always had such a nice smile. It was so warm, so kind. If Fitzgerald was right and you only see five or so of these smiles in your whole life, Martha was one of them.

He put his arm loosely round her shoulder in a half hug and held it for a few moments, breathing in the smell he'd stop trying to identify and had now simply labelled, 'Washington'.

"Much homework for Monday?"

She smiled, stroking the side of his fave gently. Alexander nodded, his heart felt as though it was ice on the verge of splintering.

"Yeah. I'll be ages working on it tonight."

She patted his arm affectionately and he straightened up again, moving closer towards the kitchen door. He sent her one last smile before turning back around and heading down the hallway and up the stairs.

Up in his room he scanned through his notebooks and folded down pages he wanted read. There were some pages about John, prose attempting to describe how he'd felt that day at the coffee shop, journal entries stressing over how much he'd liked him, one attempt at sketching him as payment for the portrait John had done of him. It wasn't awful, but it wasn't amazing either.

He folded down journal entries about the Washingtons too. Paragraphs about how he really felt about them. His desperation about being good enough for them. The crushing gratefulness he felt at their kindness. He also marked down anything he'd written about Lafayette and his endless patience and humour. Everything he'd said about Hercules' boundless love for his friends and amazing talent in art. He knew they'd be read, this was his note.

The clock had just struck one. He couldn't do it yet. He knew he should wait, do it when it was the early hours of the morning or late at night. Decrease the chances of anyone walking in too soon. Increase the chances of it working.

He set about popping the pills out of their trays, one by one. The soud of foil breaking and caving against the pressure was like an explosion against the silence that had leaked back into his room.

He finished the Prozac, a sizeable pile of white pills next to his left hand. Then he started on the iron. There was the exact same amount.

He just had to bide his time now, watch the tension grow and grow until he snapped it, clean and for good.


	25. Chapter 25

**Hey everyone, thanks for all the reviews. I think we'll get straight into this, you guys obviously want to know what happens next...**

 **Trigger warnings: Suicide**

Lafayette breathed in the rich smell of coffee and baking that lingered in the air of the shop. He loved this place, it reminded him of _le caféothèque de Paris_ his parents used to bring him to after they'd visit _les parcs rives de Seine_ on his birthday. Smoky and full of the clinking of ceramic, it felt like he was stepping back into a life he thought he'd left behind five years ago.

He must have been standing still, his eyes closed for too long because Hercules was tapping his arm, a small smile on his face.

"Everything okay?"

His eyes shone brightly in the warm lighting of the coffee shop, only a small note of concern contained in the sepia irises.

"Yeah. I just really like this place."

John nudged them over to the queue by the counter and the three of them examined the menu board carefully, shrugging off their jackets in the pleasant warmth of the building. Outside the wind was harsh and it had dropped below 50 degrees, weather they had yet to get used to after the seemingly endless summer they'd just enjoyed.

They ordered quickly, two cappuccinos for John and Hercules and a latte (or a _café au lait_ , as he called it in his mind) for Lafayette.

They settled into a booth upstairs and John took out his laptop, logging in and connecting to the coffee shop's WiFi

"Do you wanna do Monsieur Grants' homework while I finish up some art?" Hercules asked reaching into his bag for his sketchbook.

Lafayette was already nodding and pulling out a French textbook and his exercise book from his bag. He responded to Hercules absent-mindedly, not really paying attention to his words.

"Oui, je veux faire tous mes devoirs aujourd'hui, Il n'est pas beaucoup mais la dissertation prendra du temps."

 _Yeah, I wanna do all my homework today. It's not a lot, but the essay will take time._

Hercules looked at John and then back at Lafayette, who hasn't seemed to notice this sudden lapse into French.

Hercules chuckled to himself and cleared his throat.

"Laf, I don't speak French you know."

Lafayette's eyes widened slightly and he sighed, realising his mistake. He smiled somewhat sadly and shook his head in a self depreciative fashion.

"I used to go to a coffee shop in Paris with my parents. It was so much like this, I guess I fell back into French."

He shrugged and looked back down at his textbook slightly sheepishly, curly strands of hair framing his face.

John smiled and patted Lafayette's hand, his expression sympathetic.

"Sorry man, we can go somewhere else."

Lafayette laughed slightly and Hercules was relieved to hear the warmth and verisimilitude behind it.

"Non, we've got drinks already. Also, I like it here."

John nodded and picked up his mug, sipping at the drink while he scanned his eyes over some Wikipedia article he was reading.

They fell into a comfortable silence, the only noise between them was the clicking of John's keyboard, the occasional turning of a page and the smooth sound of pencil strokes against paper.

Lafayette pulled his phone from his pocket and opened it, tapping into the contact labelled _Maman_ and typing out a quick message.

 _Lafrançaise (just now): Alex awake?_

He waited for a minute or so, writing a few more sentences in his French essay and crossing all the t's in his previous paragraph.

His phone dinged and he looked back down at the screen.

 _Maman (just now): Just spoke to him. Doesn't want breakfast but says he'll have lunch_

Lafayette frowned to himself and typed a response.

 _Lafrançaise (just now): Does he seem okay?_

 _Maman (just now): He looks tired. I will make sure he eats later._

 _Lafrançaise (just now): Okay. I'll be home in two/three hours_

 _Maman (just now): Okay, love you x_

 _Lafrançaise (just now): love you too_

Lafayette slid his phone back into his pocket and drained the last of his coffee, putting the glass back on the table and wiping off any milk foam that might have lingered on his upper lip.

He looked at his two friends, one next to him and one opposite both absorbed in their work. Hercules had that intelligent look of concentration on his face he always got when he sketched and John's eyes were narrowed and trained closely on his laptop screen.

Lafayette smiled slightly to himself and put his pen back to his work, he was warm, he was safe, he was with his friends. He was okay.

oo

Alexander paced his room, his hands drumming the sides of his thighs restlessly. He didn't want to wait any longer, he couldn't wait any longer. His eyes snapped back to the pills on his desk for what felt like the one hundredth time and he sank down on to his bed.

It was late afternoon now, Lafayette would probably be coming home soon and George had returned from his meeting just ten minutes ago. He stood up again and reached towards the curtains, pulling them closed and flopping back onto his bed with his eyes firmly shut.

He wanted to do it when it was late, or very early. He still wasn't clear on all the details, his mind was foggy and thoughts seemed to move in and out of focus before he could grasp them.

He'd written a letter to his brother in the back of one of his notebooks as there was nothing in any of his journal entries about him. James was nineteen now, he occasionally got e-mails or postcards from him, the most recent one that he had been accepted into University College London starting this September. He hadn't heard the sound of his brother's voice however for about three years. Maybe this was a good thing; maybe James would get over it faster this way.

He heard the sound of footsteps in the hallway and Lafayette's voice regretting the house cheerfully. He thought he might as well go out onto the landing and say hello to his foster brother there. Lafayette would want to chat to him anyway, it was better he didn't see the state of Alexander's room.

His foster brother grinned as he jogged up the stairs, quickening his pace and pulling Alex into a tight hug when he reached the landing.

Alex reciprocated, breathing in the smell of his foster brother's sweater. Coffee, laundry detergent and that same, unidentifiable 'Washington' scent.

"How was- how was coffee?"

Alexander winced somewhat, his awkward wording and slightly hoarse voice grated against his ears.

 _So articulate, nice one. Socrates would be proud._

Lafayette laughed and shrugged, releasing Alex.

"It was fine. French essays and difficult math questions."

Alexander laughed weakly and fixed his eye contact on the small Tommy Hilfiger logo on his foster brother's chest.

He felt the gaze on him soften and Lafayette's hand was now placed on his shoulder.

"Are you okay, you haven't been out with us in ages."

Alexander nodded and shrugged, a smile he felt was probably very insincere looking appearing on his face.

His foster brother smiled and squeezed his shoulder slightly before breaking the grip on Alexander's shoulder and turning towards the door of his bedroom.

His door closed with a slight thud and the hallway was now left in a sort of blue-grey twilight darkness. The orange light that had been emanating from Lafayette's room was now a thin band of incandescent light, the glow of which only lit the bare tips of Alexander's toes.

He turned back into his room and turned on his desk lamp. It was nearing night outside now, the sun was setting later and later every night, and now that autumn was well and truly here, it was normally dark by six o'clock.

He had asked Martha if he could skip dinner and go straight to bed tonight, not wanting to make an appearance in front of the family he was so selfishly going to leave behind in the next few hours.

The guilt was eating him up inside.

It was a wake of vultures descending on his corpse, thousands of maggots squirming and working their way into his organs and devouring him.

He couldn't take it anymore.

Alexander decided to get ready. He sorted carefully through the piles of his clothes and set aside his best button down top, the nicest pair of pants he owned and even those unnecessarily expensive loafers Lafayette had insisted he buy, because why not?

He changed carefully, buttoning the shirt to the very top and pressing down the collar carefully. He pulled on the trousers, which were a charcoal grey and buckled the belt with unsteady fingers. Next he brushed out his hair and tied it into a low ponytail, being careful to smooth out any bumps or tangles as he did so. Finally, he slid his feet into the shoes and examined his reflection in the mirror.

He looked good. Well, he looked good if you ignored the purple-grey circles under his eyes and his sallow complexion. If you didn't look to closely at the bumps of his ribs underneath the button down or the thinness of his wrists poking out from the dark blue sleeves.

He sighed and pulled a strand of hair loose from the top of his head so that it fell across his face and fluttered when he breathed. Now he looked slightly more human, just a little touch of 'Alex' so he felt more like himself, less like a statute of himself he wouldn't even recognise.

He looked at the clock and watched as the minute hand jerked to 5:45. It was too early. He couldn't guarantee Martha or George wouldn't come upstairs to check on him before bed. He would have to wait just a little longer.

As he sat on his bed, he thought through his exact plan.

Would he lock his bedroom door?

If he did, it meant that nobody could get into his room and stop him, try to get him to a hospital before it worked.

If he didn't lock it, it meant that anybody could walk in, even Lafayette, when he was d-

That word.

He didn't know why it hit him so hard, like a lead weight slamming into his stomach. He knew what it meant, he knew he'd be _it_ soon.

 _Dead. Dead. Dead._

He repeated the word a few times in his mind and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to imagine _it_. He opened his mouth and spoke the word softly. He could taste _it_ on his tongue. Ashy, but sweet. The kind of sweet ethylene glycol tastes before it poisons you.

Well. _It_ tasted sweet to him now. _It_ hadn't when it had been his mother who was _dead._ His cousin, his aunt, his grandparents.

 _It_ tasted like turpentine then, like stifling city smog and gasoline.

Now though, _it_ felt like relief and a last resort.

He gathered all the pills off his desk and put them on top of a notebook, which he then rested on the floor next to him. He hunted through the very bottom of his wardrobe and finally brought out the bag he'd packed all those months ago at Pace's house. He looked through the contents with a somewhat grim smile on his face.

There was a knife, of course, it was an unwritten rule in the world of foster kids that you need a last resort weapon of self defence. He'd never thought he would use it, but that was before he'd been made to live with Pace. Sometimes the man would beat him so badly if the knife had been in his hands he wasn't totally sure that he wouldn't have used it.

There was a pack of granola bars he'd smuggled into the bag from Pace's kitchen in case the Washingtons had been the type starve him and finally, right at the bottom of his bag, a photo of his mother.

He wasn't in it, nor his brother. It was just her. She was sat on a beach in Saint Kitts in a sun dress with her hair being pulled all one way by a strong breeze. She was young in this photo. If she was twenty eight when she'd had him, here she must have been twenty two or twenty three. She looked so inexplicably happy, so carefree. He remembered how that had changed when his father had deserted them. How she had withdrawn into herself, her job, her religion.

They had been raised religious, Catholic specifically.

Alexander vividly remembered his mother knelt in their local church. She was rocking back and forth before a statue of the Virgin Mary, her eyes squeezed tightly shut and her cheeks wet with tears. Her hair was loose and fell around her face as she breathed fervent words into the crucifix clutched in her hands.

 _"Dios te salve, Maria!"_

 _"Llena eres de gracia: El Seńor es contigo, Bendita tú eres entre todas las mujeres! Y bendito es el fruto de tu vientre: Jesús! Santa María, Madre de Dios, ruega por nosotros pecadores, ahora y en la hora de nuestra muerte."_

She had prayed for a saviour, a way out. It hadn't come.

Alexander didn't believe in God, he hadn't since the day his mother had died.

He placed the photo next to the pills and put the bag back into the cupboard. Then he picked up all the notebooks he wanted to be read and placed them on the floor too.

He spent the next few hours reading everything he'd written over and over and over until he could near recite it all from memory. He stayed in his room as he heard the Washingtons eat dinner downstairs.

Their voices were faint hums he couldn't translate into clear words and the sound of metal clinking against china often drowned out anything he might have been able to hear. Occasionally a laugh or an exclamation of something would ring out, only serving to remind Alex of his how little he mattered within the family.

It was around nine thirty when George's footsteps climbed the stairs and walked along the landing towards he and Martha's bedroom. There was the sound of a door shutting, the hum of a light in the bathroom and the rush of the tap. Then a light switch was turned off and Alex heard the creak of a bed. Martha joined George not long after that. Her footsteps were lighter, much more careful. She obviously didn't want to wake her husband up.

Lafayette took longer than both his parents. The sound of the TV was muffled through the walls and floors of the house but occasional footsteps on the wooden floorboards downstairs told him his foster brother hadn't fallen asleep in front of the TV.

It was maybe just past ten when the TV was suddenly turned off and Lafayette's soft and tired footsteps thumped up the stairs.

He turned off his desk lamp so that no indication that he was still awake shone from under his door. He heard Lafayette enter his bedroom and his door was shut softly. There was the sound of him brushing his teeth and bed clothes whispering before a light was flicked off and the vague glow from under Alex's door turned to pitch.

He guessed now was a good a time as any.

Alexander filled up a mug with water from his bathroom tap and sat down on the floor below his window, where he'd placed all his notebooks and the photograph.

His hands were trembling as he picked up as many pills he thought he could swallow at once; a mix of the Prozac and Iron.

They felt heavy on his tongue and his mouth was dry. He tipped the handful past his lips and swallowed them with a large gulp of water. His hands were shaking so violently now that water was spilling over the sides of his mug and staining his trousers.

He took some more pills in his hand and swallowed them too, wincing and feeling his eyes sting at the sharp sensation at the back of his throat.

He continued that way until the pills were gone, taking handfuls with gulps of water at a time. Often he would spill the pills down his front or miss his mouth, his hands were shaking so much. His mind was blank as he picked them up off his lap and lifted them back to his mouth. He shut his eyes tight as he swallowed each one.

They were all gone now. Alexander's hands fumbled around his lap desperately for more but only swept across carpet and trouser, he had taken everything.

He leant his head against the wall and closed his eyes, waiting for something to happen. He wasn't sure how long this would take. It seemed hours ticked by as he sat there. As time passed and little happened, panic started to grip him.

 _Was it enough? What if it didn't work? Fuck, it had to work..._

He scrambled to his feet with the photo of his mother clutched tightly in his hand and stumbled towards the door. The pills hadn't had any effect yet, he would feel it when they did. It was still difficult to move though, his arms felt heavy and his legs were numb.

He was as quiet as he could be on the landing, taking small and tentative footsteps down the stairs and into the hallway below. He didn't turn on any lights, instead creeping through the dark of the house like he was already a ghost. He might has well have been. He felt as felt as pale and preternatural as one anyway.

The dining room was still and silent, dinner having been cleared from it hours ago. Lafayette's jumper was flung across the back of one of the chairs and there was a newspaper on the table that he thought George or Martha must have been reading.

He fumbled at the handles of the cabinet in the far corner and pulled it open with a small click. He blinked a few times through the darkness and examined the bottles there, the labels blurry from a deficiency in light but also from the drug induced haze that was just starting to cloud his vision.

He grabbed at the nearest bottle to him and screwed off the cap clumsily, taking a gulp of whatever the contents was. He almost spat it out as soon is it met his tongue, it was so disgusting. He thought it was probably a spirit because it tasted more like gasoline or nail polish remover than anything he'd ever had.

He swallowed a few mouthfuls of the drink and put the bottle on the nearest surface, it might have been the table, it might have been the top of the cabinet. He wasn't sure.

The drink had left a horrible burning sensation in his throat and his stomach felt like it was on fire. Lights had begun to dance in his vision and it was all he could do to stumble towards the stairs again and begin the ascent back to his room.

He took each step at a time, one hand clutching his stomach in agony and the other firmly holding on to the picture of his mother. He made it to the upstairs landing with shaking legs and a throbbing pain unfurling in his temples, spreading around his skull.

He leant against the door jamb and closed his eyes tight, the pain pulsing in his head was overwhelming. He'd had no idea the effects of what he'd taken would be so rapid. Maybe it was the alcohol?

He slid down slowly against the wall and held his head in his hands, his legs stretched out in front of him in the door way. He took deep breaths and closed his eyes, willing the pain away and unconsciousness to overcome him.

He could feel the edges of his vision blurring but the sharp needles of white hot pain in his head and stomach only seemed to intensify. He felt a strangled yell pull from his lips and clamped a hand over his mouth, pressing down desperately. Slowly, he rolled onto his stomach and half crawled, half dragged himself further into his room. He fell face first onto the carpet and groaned again in pain.

His eyelids felt so heavy, like they were weighed down. He closed them and let the waves of pain and building nausea break over him. He could feel his consciousness slipping and felt his fingers clutching weakly at the carpet like he was trying to ground himself to the earth.

Even when life seems to be escaping you and you're lying on the floor with poison seeping through your veins, the human body has a habit of trying to hold on as long as it can.

oo

Lafayette rolled onto his back and clutched the blankets tighter around him as his eyes stuttered open. Dawn was struggling through the gap in his curtains and had pooled in grey light at the foot of his bed. Why had he woken up? A quick glance at the clock told him it wasn't even six o'clock and his room wasn't yet light enough that it would wake him on a normal day.

He sat up in bed and became aware of a noise on the landing, it was faint at first. So small and quiet he wasn't sure he'd even really heard it. Then it came again, a small groan of pain like that of a wounded animal.

Lafayette swung his legs out of bed and shivered as his feet touched the cold floorboards. He slid his feet into some slippers at the foot of his bed and opened his bedroom door, stepping out onto the dimly lit landing and rubbing his eyes.

Alex's bedroom door was open, he sighed and walked over the door way. Alex must have been sleep talking or snoring and had woken him up.

A pale hand stuck out over the threshold of Alexander's bedroom and when he moved closer the rest of his brother's limp figure fell into his vision, sprawled and crumpled across the carpet.

He stood at the door way for a few long moments, his eyes almost unseeing and an icy cold feeling flooding his entire being. He felt as though this was a dream.

Was it a dream? Could his imagination be capable of thinking up a situation such as this?

Then, he stumbled slightly and fell against the cold wall of the hallway, his hand clutching the door frame and his eyes fixed on the awkward curl of his brother's fingers.

"Papa..."

His voice came out a hoarse croak and he squeezed his eyes shut, feeling nausea bubbling in the bit of his stomach.

This was no dream.

"PAPA!"

This time the cry came out shrill and piercing. It ripped from his throat and stumbled past his lips, frantic and unsteady.

He pushed off the wall and found his balance, crashing into his parent's room with the word on his lips again.

"Papa! Maman!"

The two sleeping figures stirred and George had sat up, blearily rubbing his eyes. He looked up at his son from the bed and pulled himself to his feet immediately.

"Gilbert..." He sounded still half asleep but his eyes were alert and his posture stiff.

Martha had sat up too now, a look of confusion and concern bright on her face.

"What's going on?"

Lafayette braced his hands on the side of the cupboard and felt the words tumble from his lips, breathy and punctuated by harsh gasps.

"Je ne sais pas, Je ne sais pas ce qui s'est passé! Aide! C'est Alex! Je ne sais pas ce qui s'est passé. Je me suis réveillé et il était allonger sur le sol, venez, vite! Vite!"

 _I don't know, I don't know what happened! Help! it's Alex, I don't know what happened, I woke up and he was lying on the floor, come, quick! Quick!_

Neither George or Martha could understand a word of what he had said, aside from the name Alex. This coupled with Lafayette's frantic tone and lapse into his mother tongue however was enough.

George was moving in an instant, he rushed out onto the landing and froze momentarily at the sight of his foster son's unconscious form in the doorway of his bedroom.

It was dark in the corridor, the sun having not yet risen fully and the sky still glowing a deep blue shade. George flicked on the light and knelt down next to Alex, dread flooding him when he felt how cold the boy was. He lifted Alexander's arm and felt his pulse.

There was a slow, irregular pumping there but his finger tips were already blue and only the very centre of his palm was warm. He leaned closer to the teenager's mouth and checked for breathing. There was a slight flutter of breath coming from his nose and when he exhaled ever so slightly from his mouth a strong smell of alcohol made George recoil.

"Is-he's breathing?"

Martha's voice was barely a whisper and her tone held so much fear he wanted to whip round and embrace her. Instead he nodded ever so slightly, not sparing a moment to look behind him. He used a gentle fingertip to lift the lid of Alexander's eye.

The dark iris stared blankly up at George but a second later twitched slightly. A small groan of pain fell past the teenagers lips and he rolled onto his side, a hacking cough forcing out his mouth and making his entire body shake violently.

Lafayette clapped a hand over his mouth and darted into the bathroom. He bent over the sink, dry heaving and coughing violently. He didn't get sick, he didn't have enough in his stomach to do anything but choke.

He braced his hands on the sides of the sink and shivered slightly, his arms erupting into goose bumps and a horrible feeling of dread falling over him.

Martha was at his side in a second, her warm hand rubbing between his shoulder blades gently. He turned on the tap and splashed water onto his face, turning away from the sink and striding back into the hallway hurriedly.

Martha stepped over where George was still checking Alexander's vital signs and into his bedroom. Her eyes immediately fell on the empty trays of pills on the desk and the objects stacked in piles around the room.

She picked up the boxes of pills and hurried back out of the bedroom, holding them out to George with unsteady hands.

"I found these. I don't know how many he took."

George looked up momentarily and Martha saw his eyes were full of fear, shining ever so slightly with tears. A second later his attention was back on Alex, feeling the pulse at his throat and holding a hand to his forehead to check his temperature.

"His breath smells like liquor."

Martha could have fallen to her knees then, just given up and wept. She certainly wanted to. Instead she stepped back over the boy's unconscious form and jogged downstairs to the dining room. She turned on the light and instantly noticed the bottle of scotch on the table and the open door of the liquor cabinet.

The bottle was nearly full, seemingly only about two shot glasses worth gone. This did nothing to quell the horrible sick feeling in Martha's stomach, scotch was strong. Even stronger for a small, skinny teen with presumably little to no tolerance for alcohol.

She picked up the bottle and checked the label, blanching at the percentage. 49.3%.

She tightened the lid and ran back upstairs, clutching the bottle tightly. She didn't fully trust her hand's current ability to remain steady.

"This was on the dining room table."

Lafayette was leant against the door frame, two fingers pinching the bridge of his nose and his eyes shut tightly. His lips were moving in silent words and Martha wondered if he was praying.

George straightened up and took the bottle from Martha's hands. His grip seemed firm and his fingers weren't trembling. Martha knew better then to presume he was alright however, the fear in his eyes told her all she needed to know.

"I'm going to bring him to the ER. An ambulance will take far too long to arrive."

He was already back in their bedroom, pulling a coat over his plain vest and a pair of sneakers on his bare feet.

Martha pulled a jumper out of her drawers and pulled it on.

"Take the pill boxes and the liquor. They'll need to know what he took."

He nodded and strode past her, bending down and pulling Alexander into his arms with ease.

Martha hurried down the stairs after him and pulled the keys off the hook in the hallway, unlocking the porch door and opening the car door for George to lay Alex in the back seat. Lafayette had opened the trunk of the car and was pulling a blanket out, draping it over his brother's eerily still, unresponsive figure.

Martha noticed he was wearing a thick jacket and sneakers too, with George's phone and wallet clutched in his hand. He passed these items to his father and made to climb into the passenger's seat.

"Gil, are you going with him?"

He turned to his mother and nodded firmly. His eyes were alert and awake and he seemed to have gone into crisis mode. Say what you would about his bluntness or annoyingly ever present energy, but he was a good person to have in an emergency.

"Will you be okay?"

He nodded again and Martha got the impression he didn't trust himself to be able to speak coherent English.

Lafayette rolled down the window of the car and reached out to grasp his mother's hand, squeezing it tightly before letting go and rolling back up the window, the car pulling out of the drive way a moment later.

Lafayette twisted around to look at Alexander as George drove them towards the main road en route to the Emergency Room.

His foster brother's lips were tinged blue and his face was extremely pale, the purple veins on his eyelids were prominent and his chest was revising and falling under the blanket so infinitesimally that at times it was difficult to see whether or not he was breathing.

Lafayette closed his eyes and leant his head against the cold glass of the window. He took deep breaths and felt the gravity of the situation hit him for the first time. Alex was in the back seat of the car, barely breathing with veins full of a more than likely lethal amount of Prozac, Iron and alcohol.

He felt the tears welling in his eyes and made no move to stop them as they spilt over his cheeks and slid onto his front. A choked sob fell from his mouth and he squeezed his eyes shut even tighter, feeling his entire body shake.

George glanced at his son, his knuckles turning white on the steering wheel as he pressed harder on the accelerator. The hospital was only around ten minutes from the house, but that was with normal traffic and at a average speed. George reckoned he could make it there in five.

Lafayette wiped his face clean of tears and straightened up in his seat, seemingly embarrassed at the sudden display of emotion.

"It's okay Gil, it's okay. We're nearly there."

George's voice was low and quiet, his entire concentration on the road and every shortcut to the hospital he could think of.

Lafayette sucked in a breath and nodded, turning around once again to watch Alex in the back seat.

"Are you okay, do you think you might be sick?"

Lafayette shook his head and leant his head back against the window. He watched the sun break over the horizon. The yellow fields and hedge rows of the farms were still and quiet, it was as though the morning's peacefulness was mocking him.

They drove in silence down the rural roads, George was probably going just above or at the speed limit but Lafayette found he didn't care. His only worry concerning his father's driving was cops. Two black dudes driving an expensive looking car fast down the highway in the early hours of the morning with a bottle of liquor in the cup holder. That didn't look good to most white, trigger happy cops. Or to be honest, the liquor and speeding bit didn't look good to most reasonable cops either.

He wanted to comment on this to George but found the only words that came to mind were French. He formed a few clumsy English sentences in his brain but didn't even bother saying them aloud. Besides the fact that his grammar would be whack, his lips felt numb and he could only really concentrate on Alex at the present moment.

They were within a minute or so from the ER and they had entered back into a slightly more built up area of the town, offices and shopping malls mostly with signs pointing the way to the larger cities a few miles down the highway.

George pulled into the parking lot and Lafayette jumped down onto the concrete before the car had even fully stopped. He felt awkward and under dressed in his pyjama bottoms and biggie tee shirt, but there were more important things than his current state of undress. George took the keys out of the ignition and pocketed them, opening the car door and scooping Alex back into his arms.

They practically sprinted to the doors of the ER and pushed through the automatic doors. The emergency room wasn't as quiet as they might have hoped. It was freshers' week for college students and plenty of drunk or ill looking students were waiting lethargically on benches lining the walls.

A nurse looked up at their sudden entrance and hastily got to his feet when he took in Alexander's limp form and ragged breathing. Students who were able to look up and focus somewhat on the scene in front of them did and there were mutterings and whispers thrown to and fro between the more sober ones.

Alex was white as a sheet now, his hands were cold and his lips practically purple. He was shivering and as two nurses tried to lift him onto a trolley bed he began to thrash and convulse violently.

Lafayette let out a cry of alarm and tried to move forward to help Alex, George's strong grip however was holding him back. Another two nurses had entered from a set of double doors behind Alex and the four of them were yelling instructions at each other, pulling the bed through the double doors and down the corridor. George had let go of him and was gripping his shoulders tightly, he bent down to look him in the eyes.

"Gil, I have to go with him, I need you to stay here and phone Maman, can you do that?"

Lafayette stared after the nurses and Alex, his mouth open and his eyes wide. He nodded dimly and suddenly his father's grip on his shoulder was gone. George was running after Alex, disappearing down the hospital corridor.

Lafayette sank down against the wall of the waiting room and put his head in his knees, heaving deep breaths and feeling the sobs shake his entire body.

Alex was on that bed, writhing, in pain, _dying._

 _No._

He couldn't think that. What was that statistic he'd seen in health class? Overdoses are among the least fatal methods of suicide? Alex would be okay, he would be okay, he had to be okay...

But how blue his lips had been... The way his entire body had trembled and hung limp in papa's arms.

He was making those awful gasping noises people make when they really want to sob but are holding back. The choking ones that hitch in your throat and send you into a fit of coughing and spluttering.

Someone was knelt in front of him, it was a nurse. Her blue hospital gown and matching hijab were bright against the dim lighting of the waiting room.

"Is there anything I can get you, do you need anything?"

Her voice was soft and concerned, a small smile on her young face. She couldn't have been past her early twenties. Most likely a trainee.

He wiped his face with his sleeve and opened his mouth to speak, his voice coming out panicked and high pitched with fear.

"S'il vous plaît, Mon frère, où est-il?"

 _Please, my brother, where is he?_

Her eyes widened momentarily but to his upmost surprise she opened her mouth and spoke in Lebanese accented, confident French.

 _"They've taken him to a private room. Did he take something? My colleague mentioned gastric suction, it's what they do when you've taken something poisonous."_

Lafayette nodded and smoothed down his hair, doing his best to regain his composure.

 _"Is he going to be okay?"_

The woman bit her lip and looked over her shoulder at where her colleagues had taken Alexander a few moments prior.

 _"I don't know. We'll do the absolute best we can to help. Most overdoses aren't fatal, try to remain as calm as you can. Is there anyone you want to call?"_

Lafayette nodded but then sighed and shrugged defeatedly.

 _"My mom, but she doesn't understand French. My English is very bad when I'm upset."_

The nurse smiled and squeezed his shoulder gently, her name badge read Marian.

 _"I can help translate to her. I'm sure she'll want to know what's going on."_

Lafayette smiled slightly and dug his phone from his pocket. He unlocked it and opened his contacts, dialling Martha's number.

 _"Explain to her what's going on. My name is Lafayette by the way."_

The woman nodded and held the phone to her ear, tapping her thigh as the number rang. Martha's voice answered a moment later. It was frantic and fast paced, Lafayette put his face back in his hands.

"This is a nurse in the New town Virginia Emergency room. I'm speaking on behalf of your son, Lafayette. He fears his English isn't quite confident enough at the moment to speak to you himself."

There was silence on Martha's end for a second before she asked in a fearful voice, "Is Alexander alright?"

"They're taking him in for gastric suction, or stomach pumping, to remove any remaining toxins in his stomach. It appears he might have had a seizure caused by a build up of serotonin. Did he take a large amount of Prozac or another type of anti-depressant?"

Martha's voice was frantic again, Lafayette could picture her expression; it killed him.

"Yes, he did. Will he be okay? Where is George?"

"Most overdoes aren't fatal ma'am, we're doing are very best."

She looked at Lafayette for a moment, silently asking him about George.

 _"He went in with Alex. Ask her if I can call John and Hercules"_

"George went in with your son ma'am. Lafayette is asking if he can call John and Hercules."

He could or a practically hear Martha's sigh.

"They don't know... Tell him he can, can he hear me?"

Marian passed the phone to Lafayette who sniffed and held the phone to his ear.

"Oui maman, I- I can."

Martha's voice became instantly calmer and softened.

"Gil, I love you, okay. Alex is going to be okay, he's strong, so are you. I have to see if I can contact his brother in London. Can I go or do you need me?"

Lafayette shook his head and smiled weakly into the phone.

"I also love you Maman, you go. It's okay"

Lafayette hung up and closed his eyes for a moment before smiling slightly at the young nurse.

 _"Thanks so much, I don't know what I would have done."_

She smiled and shrugged.

 _"I have to call a friend now."_

 _"Does he understand French?"_

Lafayette nodded and looked back down at his phone, the last text he'd gotten from John had been the day prior telling him he and Herc had gotten home okay.

The nurse stood up and walked back through the double doors, they swung shut and he watched her blue figure retreat down the corridor.

He pressed John's number and squeezed his eyes shut tightly, holding his breath as the number dialled.

John picked up after thirty seconds or so and his voice sounded sleepily on the other end.

"Laf? It's like six thirty..."

Lafayette felt his face screw up with tears and he heaved a sudden sob. How could he break this to John?

"Laf? Laf, are you okay?"

Lafayette took a few deep breaths and shook his head.

"C'est Alex, quelque chose s'est passé."

 _It's Alex, something happened._

He heard the shuffling of covers as John sat up.

"Qu'est-ce qui se passe?"

His voice was hinting on frantic now. There was the sound of rustling and Lafayette assumed he had stood up.

 _"He took a load of pills and some liquor, when, I don't know. I found him this morning."_

A string of expletives sounded on the other end of the line and Lafayette closed his eyes again.

 _"Is he- he's alive?"_

Lafayette's laugh turned into a sob and he nodded.

 _"Yeah. We're at the ER."_

He could hear the sound of clothes rustling and a belt buckle clinking.

 _"Fuck, I'm coming now. Is he going to be okay?"_

Lafayette's face crumpled and his French became gasped. He was sobbing again, Jesus Christ.

 _"I don't know, no one will tell me a fucking thing! They're all saying they'll try their best but Jesus Christ, he looked so fucking dead John!"_

 _"I'll be there as soon as I can, Herc's still asleep I think. I'll go wake him."_

Lafayette nodded into the phone and sniffed, wiping his eyes on his sleeve _._

 _"Okay. I'll see you soon."_

John's voice was far away from the phone now, like he'd put it down to do something. It was fast paced and desperate sounding.

 _"See you soon."_

Lafayette pressed end call and put his phone back into his pocket. He allowed the sobs to rack his body and put his face in his hands.

What the fuck would happen now?


	26. Chapter 26

**Hello! Sorry it took me a week, this one is long though. I edited it and stuff but I'm not entirely happy with it. Eh.**

 **Xxprincessgirlxx: No, the New York I mentioned is actually a city in Uzbekistan. The Virginia they live in is the Virginia in Pyongyang.**

 **Chilazon: Basically, "Combining Prozac with alcohol can quickly lead to increased sedation. Having even one drink while you take Prozac can cause extreme drowsiness. This effect can lead to potentially dangerous situations." It basically worsens the effects the Prozac has and along with the iron, does damage to the liver. He doesn't have alcohol poisoning, per say. Prozac causes a build up of seratonin which can lead to seizures and migraines, severely, comas and death. I tried to do my research so I could write accurately about the event. I want to be a writer when I'm older. I guess I already am technically. Yeah, I'd love to one day.**

 **NexaRust: Still willing to help? Do you have an account?**

 **A. Elf: Lemme clear something up real quick, I WANT NO ONE TO BLAME JOHN. OR GEORGE. OR LAFAYETTE. Please, suicide is an epidemic, caused by mental illness and the stigma that surrounds it about getting help. Alex has suffered at the hands of a society that doesn't care about kids who fall through the cracks or are different to the perceived norm. Like the entirety of the revolutionary set. John said some bad things, so did George. But Alex is withdrawn, Alex said fucked up things to George, no one was in their right state of mind. The enemy here is a prejudice, uncaring and power hungry society who tramples everyone that doesn't conform.**

 **Trigger warnings: Panic attacks, hospitals, suicide, overdoses, grieving.**

John heard the phone call end and pulled a pair of sneakers out from where they'd fallen under the couch. He pulled them on violently and reached down to tie the laces. He started to fold a loop and cursed in anger, his hands were shaking so much that he kept dropping the lace, unable to calm the trembling down enough to tie a sufficient knot.

John yelled in frustration and kicked them off, stumbling to the porch and pushing his feet into some slip on vans instead. He pulled a jacket off the hook in the hallway and pushed one arm into the sleeve, stopping when the jacket was only half on. Fuck it.

He rushed to Hercules room and paused outside the door, his fist raised to knock on the painted wood. How do you tell your best friend that your 'boyfriend' just tried to kill himself and just might succeed in the aforementioned endeavour?

 _No. He was not thinking that way. He was not thinking that way. NO._

He knocked twice and opened the door gently, giving his eyes a few seconds to adjust to the gloom before bending over Hercules to shake him awake.

"Herc- Hercules. Wake up."

The teenager stirred slightly, groaning and rolling over to bury his face in his pillow.

John felt a prickle of frustration and shook him a little harder.

"Hercules! This is urgent!"

The teenager opened his eyes slowly and blinked a few times, dark eyebrows furrowing in confusion and disorientation.

"Wha- it's so early..."

John frantically shook his head and swept some hair out of his eyes, nodding towards the door.

"We need to go, something- something's happened with Alex. I- please."

Hercules sat up, seemingly more alert and surveyed John with apprehension. He swung his legs out of bed and stood up, now a good bit taller than John's five foot ten.

"What's going on, is everyone okay?"

John closed his eyes and shook his head, feeling the emotion threatening to overwhelm him and spill down his cheeks.

"Alex- he... Lafayette just called me. Alex took an overdose. They just got to the ER. It didn't sound good, Herc."

His voice broke halfway through his sentence and he tilted his head up towards the ceiling, blinking back tears that were moments away from falling down his face.

Hercules let out a low breath and pulled John into a hug, gripping his shoulder in a firm, grounding manner.

"Is... Is Alex gonna be okay?"

A small but insistent (and possibly selfish) part of Hercules wanted to ask about Lafayette. Was he okay? Hercules wouldn't be able to bear it if Lafayette wasn't okay. Fuck, he couldn't bear it that _Alex_ wasn't okay.

John shrugged in the embrace and stepped back slightly, wiping just under his eyelashes were Hercules noticed the tan skin glistened a little.

"Lafayette- he didn't exactly fill me with confidence."

Hercules felt a panic seize him, on top of the awful lead weight sitting in his stomach about Alexander.

"Was he speaking English or French?"

John winced.

"French."

Hercules sighed and opened his drawer, pulling out clothes hastily and setting them out on his bed.

"I'll be two seconds. Call your brother; he'll give us a lift."

John nodded and backed out of the room, the anxiety flooding him again as he opened his phone to text Henry.

 _John (just now): I need you to drive me and Herc to the ER_

 _HenryLaurensJr (just now): fuck are you okay?_

 _John (just now): not the best way of phrasing it. Alex is there, we have to see him_

 _HenryLaurensJr (just now): what happened?_

 _John (just now): he took an overdose. I don't know much I don't wanna talk about it now. how soon can you be at Herc's?_

 _HenryLaurensJr (just now): 53 York approach? like ten minutes_

 _John (just now): you couldn't make it five?_

 _HenryLaurensJr (just now): I'll be as quick as I can. d'ac_

 _John (just now): d'ac. Please hurry_

John turned off his phone and pocketed it, drumming his fingers against his thigh restlessly. This was all his fault. All his fucking fault. For all that he'd said to him last week, for not standing up for him when Lafayette had been pissed off the other day.

He should have seen this coming, he should have done something, he should have helped him, could have stopped this, been a good friend, not let his fucking pride stay in the way of Alex and his safety.

Fuck. This was on him.

He put his face in his hands and leant against the door jamb of the kitchen. How could he have let this happen? How could he have let this happen? _How could he have let this happen?_

John could feel his breathing quickening and a panic gripped him. He opened his mouth to inhale but found he could only choke; it was like the muscles in his throat had just stopped working.

 _All your fault, all your fault, all your fault._

There was a sudden pain in his chest and he could feel his legs trembling. What was happening? He took in a gasping breath and felt it catch. His lungs were constricting, lights were dancing in his vision. He felt like he was dying. Was he dying?

He stumbled to the couch and collapsed down onto it, clutching the hem of his tee shirt tightly and trying to breathe. Something wasn't right, this wasn't natural, somebody help him!

There was footsteps in the hall way and Hercules voice greeted him.

"John, did you- fuck, are you okay?"

Hercules was sitting next to him in an instant, hands on his shoulders and looking at him with deep concern.

"It's- It's all- all my- It's all my f-fault."

John managed between gasps, pulling at his hair and squeezing his eyes shut.

Hercules shook his head frantically and clutched him tighter.

"John, you're having a panic attack, try to calm down, I'm getting you some water."

He was having a panic attack? He never had a panic attacks! Was this what Alex went through on a more often than not daily basis? He felt like he was dying.

He squeezed his eyes shut even tighter and clutched at the coverlet on the sofa with trembling hands. He focused on trying to breath, counting in his head like he'd seen Lafayette do for Alex.

He opened his eyes but quickly shut them again with another deep breath. Everything was still spinning and coloured lights were flashing in his peripheral vision.

Hercules was back next to him, a mug in his hand. John took it and tipped back a large gulp of water, his chest rising and falling like he'd just run a one hundred metre sprint.

He closed his eyes again and started to try and breathe. Hercules was counting for him under his breath but he still felt his entire world being crushed inwards like a soda can. He focused on the numbers; one, two, three, four, five.

It took them a while to form a somewhat regular rhythm but after a few minutes John could breathe almost properly again. He held out his hand in front of him but quickly snapped it back shut again. It was shaking like a leaf.

"John, this isn't your fault."

Hercules was trying to catch his eye, leaning down and staring at him with thinly disguised concern and fear.

John covered his face with his hand and shook his head.

"I could have done something, I should have..."

Hercules took John's wrist and held it away from his face, staring John straight in the eyes.

"Done what John? You couldn't be with him every second of every day, you couldn't have stopped this, it's happened now. We just need to deal with it as best we can. There's no point in should haves' and could haves'."

John stared into his lap, defeated. He shrugged and took another sip of water to substitute saying something.

Hercules stood up and brought the mug back to the kitchen.

"Did you call Henry?"

John nodded and stood up himself now, walking tentatively as though he thought his legs were about to give in beneath him. He nodded and pulled out his phone, opening it after a few tries of typing in his password wrong. His hands were uncoordinated, clumsy.

He had no new messages from Lafayette. Well, he had called him only about ten minutes ago. Still, a lot could happen in ten minutes.

There was the sound of a car horn outside and John glanced out the window, his eyes finding his brother's Audi. A car more expensive than a normal college student should be able to afford, then, John's family has never been short on money by any means.

John sprang towards the hallway, grabbing a set of keys and flaunting to Hercules who was close behind him. Together they rushed out of the house and onto the street, blinking in the clear October light.

John jumped into the back of the car so as to be seated next to Hercules and slammed the door shut, not sparing a word to his brother until the car had been pulled back out onto the road and was speeding back towards the highway.

"Is everything okay, what's happening with Alexander?"

John declined to answer and turned to look out the window. His expression was ashen and his jaw set tightly.

Hercules made eye contact with Henry in the rear view mirror and they exchanged a knowing look.

"We don't know much. Only that Lafayette found him not long ago."

They slowed to a halt in a long queue of traffic and Hercules cursed under his breath, tapping his foot impatiently and the light turned orange. John was watching the cars ahead of them with a look of barely disguised fury, growling under his bed when a driver changed lanes directly in front of them and didn't indicate.

"Does no one in this state know how to fucking drive?"

Hercules squeezed John's shoulder in a comforting manner and the teenager leant into the touch, scooting over to be closer to his friend. John rested his head against Hercules' arm and closed his eyes, willing himself not to cry again.

The traffic moved again and they were approaching the slightly less suburban area of their town now, picket fence houses becoming gas stations becoming office buildings and banks.

No one spoke. Henry, being John's brother, knew when to say something to him and when best to not. Hercules had reached the same conclusion which was that John didn't want to talk.

The emergency room, fortunately, was about ten minutes away from Hercules' house although with the traffic the route probably would have taken them closer to fifteen.

They pulled into the parking lot of the ER and John gave his brother a quick but tight hug.

"You can go, we'll probably be here till' late and George will give us a ride when we do leave."

Henry nodded and John shut the car door. He rolled down the window of the driver's seat and sent a sympathetic look to his brother.

"John, stay strong."

John nodded slightly and Hercules from behind him sent Henry a small smile. Together, the two teenagers rushed through the parking lot and into the air conditioned waiting room of the ER.

Hercules scanned the hoards of people crowding the chairs around the room and found Lafayette sitting on the floor by a vending machine. His legs were stretched out in front of him and he was drumming anxiously on the metal side of the machine next to him.

Hercules and John immediately rushed over, falling into sitting positions in front of Lafayette and simultaneously pulling him into a tight bear hug.

Lafayette seemed to slump in his friends' arms and John felt him heave a great gasp into his shoulder. When they finally broke apart John realised Lafayette was still in his pyjamas and his eyes were red rimmed and puffy. He looked like he hadn't stopped crying for a good half hour.

John squeezed in beside Lafayette in the space between the two vending machines. Hercules, who's shoulders were broader than either of theirs, sat in front of the two of them with anxious eyes and a nervous, alert posture.

"Sal-salut."

Lafayette tried a smile but it came out looking more like a grimace than anything else. He looked exhausted, there were tear stains on his cheeks and his hands were shaking. John rested his head on Lafayette's shoulder and closed his eyes. He wished he could just go to sleep and wake up in his bed. Have this all be some horrible nightmare.

"Do you know anything more? About Alex?"

John didn't want to push Lafayette, he was obviously stricken with worry and fear like himself, but he needed to know what was going on.

"Nous- We only got here last half an hour."

John pulled and arm around Lafayette's shoulder, anxiety clenching its fist around his stomach at the lapse in Lafayette's usually decent grammar.

"He must have taken it over the night. I found him at roughly six o'clock."

Hercules had taken off his jacket and put it to the side. It was cold in the waiting room but he had a jumper on underneath anyway.

John quietly asked Lafayette for more information with a glance.

"I was speaking to une imfermière, elle a dit... elle a dit..."

He sighed and rubbed his face with a trembling hand.

"I cannot say in English."

John gripped Lafayette's arm tighter and looked at him with pleading eyes.

"Please, I'll translate."

He wanted to know how much pain he was responsible for putting Alex in.

Lafayette sighed.

"Je ne sais pas les mots exacts, mais, elle a dit il a eu une crise, et il va subis un lavage d'estomac."

John paled, if it was possible for his skin to go even more grey than it had been before, it did. Hercules ranged his eyes over the two of them, confused and afraid.

"What? What did he say?"

There was silence. It was like they were sat in their own little bubble away from the other people around them. Their voices, their conversations, their _laughter_ didn't matter.

John cast his eyes downwards slightly and translated in a rush, as though the words were poison that he was trying to spit out.

"He doesn't know the exact words but that Alex had seizure and was going to have to have his stomach pumped."

Hercules almost wished he hadn't asked.

Lafayette yawned and leant his head against the side of the vending machine he was sitting against. He shivered slightly and John nestled deeper into his side.

"Are you cold? Do you want my jacket?"

Hercules eyed Lafayette with concern and held up his denim, wool lined coat. Lafayette looked down at his own bomber. It was expensive, yes. Fashionable, you bet. Where it failed was practicality. He was admittedly cold in his tartan pyjama pants and tee shirt.

"Tant que tu n'as pas froid."

John translated absentmindedly. He remembered doing this back when Lafayette had started at their middle school. 6th grade? 7th?

"As long as you're not cold."

Hercules shook his head and smiled slightly. Lafayette took the jacket and draped it around himself. He was tall and quite broad shouldered too, but the coat was large on him. He looked even smaller and more lost when swamped in fabric.

Lafayette closed his eyes and rested his head against the cold metal of the vending machine. He just wanted to sleep a little, not have to think about what was going on in his own reality. Sheer exhaustion overwhelmed him eventually. His mind was running in circles, frantic and desperate but his body wasn't listening. Sleep came quickly.

 _Suddenly he's ten years old again. He's back in France, in their kitchen. His mother is pressing an antiseptic cotton ball to his lip. The liquid stings at the cut, soaking up the blood._

 _"Ils sont jaloux, Gil. Ils ne comprennent pas. Outre, est-ce tu veux être normal? C'est ennuyeux!"_

 _She strokes the side of his face and tries at a laugh, but her eyes are full of tears. Somehow her humour can't make up for the boys at school calling him 'un juif dégoûtant'._

 _Filthy Jew._

 _He's eleven now. They're on the Metro to Le Marais, his mother has family there and it's Shabbat._ _Someone has spray painted swastikas over an advertisement for a Hebrew language class._

 _There are other words written there. He doesn't know what they mean. He hasn't learnt enough English yet._

 _An elderly couple across from them are laughing at something together. They point at the ads, exchange knowing looks and say something that makes a muscle in his father's jaw tighten._

 _His mother says nothing; she grits her teeth and watches le douze arrondissement go by._

 _It's a few months later. He sits in his living room with the TV remote in his hands. A cartoon is on but he's not watching it. They told him to do some homework before they came back at six. It's eight now, he hasn't heard anything from them. His maths book sits untouched at the kitchen table._

 _A man he's seen his father working with is standing in their doorway. His tie is windswept, his eyes anxious. He's not great with kids. Especially kids he has to notify have just become orphans._

Lafayette heard himself groan and opened his eyes. Next to him, John was on his phone, his eyes scanning furtively over a WebMd page.

Lafayette looked up and realised Hercules was watching him. He never had been great at disguising his emotions, Hercules. Poorly hidden concern was laced across his features.

"You okay?"

Lafayette shook his head. What was the point in saying he was? When he was awake, he was here in the ER where Alex was in God knows what state, when he dreamt he was a kid again, in France; reliving all the moments he'd much rather forget.

"Quelle heure est-il?"

John looked down at his phone and sighed.

"Just gone seven."

Great, he'd slept for less than twenty minutes.

Hercules was watching the staff in the waiting room. They were weaving through the crosses of college students, taking lazy notes on clipboards and rolling their eyes.

"Do you think we can ask about Alex? Ask where he is?"

John closed the tab he'd been reading and put his phone in his pocket.

"I'm gonna try."

He squeezed out from next to Lafayette gently and stood up, brushing himself off.

Hercules and Lafayette remained silent as John made his way over to a desk by the double doors they'd brought Alex through around forty-five minutes ago.

The woman who sat there was wearing scrubs too but didn't really look all too much like a nurse on duty. Her hair was falling from its bun, something that would have been allowed if she was working an active shift.

"Good morning."

She smiled at him, the kind of smile people are taught to give to customers they want to sell something to. A muscle memory, not a reaction to anything.

"My friend was brought in here about forty-five minutes ago. I was wondering if there was any news or information..."

The nurse tapped a few times on her keyboard, frowning.

"The small one? I can check if anything's been entered on the system but most likely they'll not have had any time to. The situation seemed quite..."

 _Dire_ , John filled in the word in his head.

"I'll call and see if any of the nurses are free to check in on him and report back."

John nodded and leant against the desk, watching as she dialled a number into the phone beside her computer.

The number rang out and the nurse frowned, setting the phone back into its receiver and shrugging.

"I'm sure they'll be some news soon."

John didn't have the energy to give a fake smile or act like he was anything other than terrified, angry and upset

He turned around with a slight incline of his head and walked back over to where his friends were sitting. Neither of them asked anything, they saw the expression on his face.

John sat back down next to Lafayette and buried his face back into his shoulder, squeezing his eyes tightly shut and making sure to take deep breaths.

This was all his fault.

oo

George let go of Lafayette's shoulders and spun around, running after where the nurses and Alex were disappearing down the corridor.

He caught up with them quickly, standing behind the nurses and dodging out of their way as they pulled the bed into an empty room off the side of the corridor, calling instructions to each other that George didn't understand and opening drawers, taking out syringes and bottles.

And Alex, George had no idea what was going on, he looked like he was having a fit or a seizure. His eyes were closed and it seemed as though he was still unconscious, but he was shaking and writhing in apparent agony. His lips were blue and his face was screwed him in pain.

George couldn't watch, he turned his face away as a nurse approached him, her mask pulled down below her chin do she could speak to him.

"Do you know what he took?"

George nodded numbly and took out the empty trays of Prozac and iron pills, holding up the bottle of scotch as well. His hands were shaking. He wished she would take the goddamn things, he didn't what to look at them a second longer.

"All of this?"

Her eyes were wide and she looked almost disbelieving, was this her first time dealing with an overdose? He felt a surge of frustration,

"Yes, all of this! What's happening to him?"

The nurse seemed to regain her composure slightly and took the bottle and pill trays from his hand. There were more nurses coming into the room now and a man in dark navy scrubs rather than the light blue ones of the other nurses. George guessed he was a doctor.

One of the nurses had assembled a syringe and squirted some of its contents into the air, testing it. He looked at the doctor who nodded and injected the needle into a vain on the crook of Alexander's elbow. The effect was almost instantaneous. The teenager's wild, thrashing movements stopped and he fell limp, eyes closed and breathing even slower.

His lips were still blue and his face was drained of colour. George knew that it was obviously good Alex's (seizure? Fit?) had stopped but at least before he had known the boy was alive. There wasn't much to indicate that now.

None of the nurses had slowed down however, they were pulling equipment out of drawers; tubes, more syringes, bottles, funnels and things George couldn't name.

"What are you going to do? What's happening?"

One of the nurses pulled him to the side of the room, away from the action around the bed Alex was lain on.

"When did you find him? Do you know how much time passed between him ingesting the pills and you finding him?"

George rubbed his face with his hands and pinched the bridge of his nose, thinking. He'd been at a meeting most of yesterday.

"My son, he found him at about six. But he could have taken the pills any time from, I don't know, around five yesterday."

The nurse nodded and began pulling rubber gloves up her hands.

"What are you doing now? What did you inject him with?"

She turned to her colleges and began helping them to pull objects out of drawers, handing them in fluid, practiced movements to the other nurses. As she moved, she spoke with him.

"We're going to try stomach pumping. Remove any medication or alcohol left in the stomach before it enters the blood stream. The shot he got was to stop the seizure. He took Prozac which contains serotonin, that likely caused the seizure."

George nodded dimly, not really taking in the information she was giving him. One question was burning in his mind, he wanted to ask, he needed to know-

"Will-he'll live?"

The silence that followed crushed him. She looked at him with uncertain eyes and then glanced away. When she spoke, her voice sounded cautious, she was treading gently.

"It's- It's too early to tell. It depends on his long it has been since he took the overdose. We're doing everything we can."

That last line. _We're doing everything we can._ It was so cliché. Typical to any hospital drama, soap opera, you name it. It was almost laughable and out of place in the situation. It didn't make him feel any better.

"You'll have some paper work to fill out and questions to answer with the director of the children's unit. I take it he's under eighteen?"

George nodded again, his mind spinning a thousand miles a second.

"He's fifteen."

That hit him. Hard. Alex was fifteen. _Fifteen_. How could a fifteen year old have endured so much they decided to do the unthinkable? _Fifteen..._

He was hurried out of the room quickly, evidently the doctors and nurses wanted to get on with their jobs without him in the background asking questions and panicking. He stole a last glance at Alex before a nurse blocked his view.

His dark hair was ruffled, his skin pale and with nurses swarming around him. George wondered what his state would be the next time he saw him.

oo

 _Children's unit: New Town Hospital Virginia, overdose form for parent/ guardian_

 _Name of child/young person: Alexander Hamilton_

George sat in a small office just two doors down from where he'd left Alex, despite his protestations. The pen was running out and had an infernal plastic clicker that kept getting stuck.

 _Age of child/ young person: 15_

 _Date of birth of child/ young person: 1/11/02_

 _Date of admission to New Town Virginia Hospital Children's unit: 10/13/17_

 _Name of parent/s or legal guardian/s: George Washington, Martha Washington_

 _Date of overdose: 10/12/17? 10/13/17?_

George put question marks here, unsure whether it had happened last night or early that morning.

 _Method of overdose/ drug: Prozac, Iron, alcohol_

 _Had the child/ young person been prescribed or taking the medications used to overdose, if the substance taken was a prescription drug? If so, please specify. Yes - Prozac and iron supplements._

 _Was the overdose an attempt at suicide, without reasonable doubt?_

George grit his teeth. He would have loved to say no. Of course Alex would never try that! It was a mistake, a horrible accident.

That would be a lie. Of course Alex would try that. How could be have not seen it coming? It wasn't a mistake, it was terribly purposeful.

 _Was the overdose an attempt at suicide, without reasonable doubt? Yes_

 _If the answer to the previous question is yes, answer this question. If not, please skip._

 _Is this the child/ young person's first attempt at suicide? If not, specify the number of previous attempts._

George dropped the pen. He didn't- he didn't know... Alex was only fifteen, had he tried to... tried to... before he'd come to them? He'd never thought to find out, no one had told him. He left the question blank.

 _Is the child/ young person taking any prescription medication (other than ones possibly mentioned previously/ used to overdose)? No._

 _Has the child/ young person been diagnosed with any physiological illnesses, leaning/ social disabilities or behavioural disorders? Please circle and specify._

George thought back to the night in the car with Gil, when they'd read through the hospital report. He remembered Alex had been given a diagnosis sheet he'd had to bring with the prescription to pick up his Prozac. He circled psychological illnesses.

 _Has the child/ young person been diagnosed with any psychological illnesses, learning/ social disabilities or behavioural disorders? Yes- Generalised anxiety disorder and Panic disorder._

 _Has the child/ young person undergone any treatment for these issues, e.g. medication or therapy? Yes - medication._

George thought back to the psychiatrist they'd been waiting to see about Alex. Surely they weren't far down the waiting list now? When Alex got better they'd go back.

When.

He wasn't sure if this preposition was optimistic and useful in the situation, something to help him plan ahead and stay afloat or a dangerous and premature assumption he couldn't afford to make.

He decided it didn't matter. The language he used in his head wouldn't effect Alexander's well being, nor would it save him.

The questions ended there. He knew there'd be more eventually; follow up paperwork based on the answers he'd given. More questions he wouldn't be able to answer, more questions that would make him sick to the core because he couldn't categorically say no to them.

He signed his name at the foot of the paper and put down the pen. All of the paper work and signing had taken him at least thirty minutes. That was a long time, he needed to know how Alex was.

George stepped out of the room and into the office next door where the man who'd given him the forms was waiting. He was in a suit and tie, unlike the doctors and nurses so George guessed he was some kind of administrator of manager of the children's ward.

Saying 'children's ward' still felt strange to George. They were always painted bright colours and had teddy bears and things. That would feel horribly ironic in Alex's situation. He hoped the hospital staff would have the good sense to put him somewhere else.

"Finished then?"

George nodded and handed over the papers, watching as the man flicked through them, skim reading his answers.

"You've missed a question, just here."

He moved closer to George and pointed a bony finger at the paper.

 _Is this the child/ young person's first attempt at suicide? If not, specify the number of previous attempts._

George shook his head, keeping his face expressionless.

"I wasn't sure of the answer so I let it remain blank."

The man looked at him strangely and cleared his throat.

"With all due respect, how could you not know, you're his father, are you not?"

George shook his head and pointed to where he'd circled legal guardian at the fourth question.

"He's my foster son, only been with us for about three months."

The man looked suddenly uncomfortable and cleared his throat again, taking the papers back and putting them in a neat pile on his desk.

"Is it possible I could see him, or hear something about how he's doing?"

George tried to keep his tone level, an exceedingly difficult task considering all the emotions that were on the verge of leaking into his voice. Fear, irritation, desperation, horror.

The man glanced down the hallway at the door behind which Alexander was being treated. There was the muffled sound of yelling and a group of voices all talking over each other emanating from behind the door, which had been pulled shut.

"I'm not sure if now is the best time."

George felt annoyance prickle at him slightly, he had to see Alex, or at least know what was going on.

"Please, could I at least get some news on how he is? My other son, he'll be waiting too."

He let a slight note of desperation creep into his voice and threw in a mention of Lafayette as an afterthought. People always feel more sympathy when you play the family card.

God, he was such a politician.

The man's face visibly softened slightly. Maybe he had children of his own.

"I'll send someone in to check and report back. You can go back to the waiting room. You said your son was there?"

George nodded and smiled gratefully.

"Thank you."

The man frowned slightly and looked at him with renewed interest and concentration on his face.

"Do I know you from somewhere?"

George laughed politely, inside though, annoyed. He hadn't wanted anyone recognising him as the controversial democrat he was. Black men running for the United States Senate weren't so popular in southern States.

"I'm a Democratic nominee for the Senate this year."

He just crossed his fingers and hoped this man wasn't the type to let politics influence his work. Mercifully, the man smiled.

"I've seen you in the paper. I'm a democrat too by the way, no need to worry."

George smiled ever so slightly and inclined his head, already taking a step back. Friendly conversation was all well and good in the checkout line of the grocery store but right now he'd rather be with his family.

"Well, I'd best... My son."

The man nodded and turned around back into his office. Before he closed the door he looked at George with tired, sympathetic eyes.

"I'm sorry. I can't imagine..."

George looked away and shrugged his shoulders, not answering. He didn't think words would do whatever he was feeling justice. He walked back down the corridor which he'd come from, the sounds from the waiting room getting clearer and clearer.

He pushed open the double doors to the waiting room and stepped out, his eyes immediately falling to where Lafayette was sitting. In the time he'd been gone, John and Hercules had arrived.

He walked over to where they were sitting and watched the three boys as they looked up at him. Lafayette and John both looked a mess. Lafayette was still in pyjamas and John hastily dressed. Both boys were clearly shaking and had shared sets of equally exhausted looking, red rimmed eyes.

Hercules' face was calmer, more set and expressionless, but George couldn't dismiss the hurt in his eyes. It was the same look he'd seen in them when Gilbert told him about Hercules being called slurs at school in 8th grade.

Lafayette scrambled to his feet almost instantly, a denim jacket that had been draped around his shoulder falling to the floor.

He rushed into George's arms and spoke in a barrage of frantic French.

"Est-il bien? Qu'est qui se passe? Avait-il un crise? C'est ce l'imfermière a dit."

John had stood up himself now, George looked at him helplessly for a translation.

"He's asking if Alex is okay, whether he had a seizure like the nurse said."

George nodded slowly, rubbing his face slowly with his hand and taking a deep breath.

"Yeah. They're gonna try pumping his stomach, I- I don't know too much."

He looked down at where they'd been sitting, squished between two vending machines on the linoleum floor.

"No one found you seats?"

Hercules shrugged and shook his head, looking around at the crowds of people on the seats of the room.

"Have you eaten anything yet today? John, Hercules?"

They both shook their heads and Lafayette shrugged. George frowned and reached for his wallet.

"I could get you three something, could you eat?"

Lafayette grimaced and John looked slightly apprehensive.

"Je ne pense pas que ce soit une bonne idée. C'est dégueulasse mais je ne veux pas vomir."

John nodded in agreement.

"He says it's not a good idea. He doesn't want to get sick. I second that."

George took out a ten dollar bill and held it out to Lafayette.

"At least get some water or a snack... something."

"Je t'ai dit, je n'ai pas faim. Pas besoin de m'acheter des choses faire vous sentir mieux."

 _I told you, I'm not hungry. You don't need to buy me things to make yourself feel better._

John gave Lafayette an incredulous look and folded his arms, sighing slightly.

"Je ne traduirai pas ça."

 _I'm not going to translate that Gil._

"He's not hungry."

George looked from John to Lafayette, his son's tone had cold and disinterested. Right now he was yawning and pulling the jacket back around himself.

"Okay. Do you need anything?"

Lafayette looked like he was about to speak but John beat him to it, saying something in rapid French, a note of warning behind his words.

"Il veut juste aider. Pas besoin d'être brusque."

 _He just wants to help, there's no need to be rude._

Lafayette closed his eyes and took a deep breath, thoroughly baffling Hercules and George, who had no idea what was being said.

"Je- I will eat later."

George nodded and looked around for somewhere to wait. He wasn't going to sit on the floor like his fifteen year old son and his friends.

He found a chair right in the corner away from the majority of the vomiting, stumbling college students and sat down, holding his head in his hands. These were going to be a long next couple of hours.

oo

Martha had spent the last hour or so looking for anything she could find about James Hamilton, Alexander's brother. She'd nearly given up looking through the paper work they'd signed when they'd first taken Alex in and the files they'd been given when, on a whim, she checked one of Alexander's notebooks.

On the very latest page in his loopy, slanting handwriting he'd written what looked like a letter to his brother. Martha didn't read it, it already felt strange and intimate looking through his journals, even though the things he'd put out last night were evidently supposed to be read.

At the bottom of the page however, there was a phone number. It could simply have been someone else's number Alex had scrawled down on the nearest paper he could find, but that seemed unlikely; it was written in the same ink. She read it over and sure enough, the area code was a British one. 020. She thought that meant it was a landline number, rather than a mobile phone. James' adopted family's home?

She walked to the bedroom and picked up her phone from where she'd left it after Gilbert had called.

Opening it and putting in her password, she added the number into her phone. Before ringing it, she called George. He responded immediately.

"Hey, is everything alright?"

Martha nodded and stared down at James' number.

"Yeah. Just that I think I've found his brother's number and I don't really know what to say."

There were a few moments of silence on the end, Martha imagined how her husband's mouth would frown in concentration.

"Where did you find it?"

"He wrote something to him in the back of a journal with a phone number beside it. It might not be his, but the chances it is are pretty... I mean, It's probably his number."

"Just tell him who you are and what's happened. Ask for his phone number, you can text him a picture of whatever he wrote."

Martha nodded, fiddling with the end of the blanket on their bed.

"How old would he be? Is he younger or older?"

There was a curious noise on the other end of the line and Martha heard a rustling sound, like George was standing up. There was faint talking on the other end.

 _"Gil, how old is Alexander's brother?"_

 _"What?"_

His voice sounded tired and there was a flash of irritation in his tone.

 _"Uhh, assez dix-neuf ans..."_

Martha winced. It was never good when Lafayette lapsed into French around them.

George spoke back into the receiver.

"Around nineteen."

Martha sighed in relief. Telling a young kid that their brother had tried to kill himself was something she never wanted to do. Telling a nineteen year old was bad enough but at least he would have some maturity and knowledge about the subject.

"I'll call him. George, is everything okay over there?"

There was a sigh on the other side and when he responded, George's voice broke a little.

"No. Gil is- Gil is really upset. John is kind of a wreck as well. We don't really know what's going on."

Martha took her face in her hand and closed her eyes for a moment.

"As soon as I call him I'll come over. Is there anything I should bring? Will they be hungry?"

"I don't know. Gil snapped at me in French when I asked if he was hungry. I'll ask them and text you."

"Okay. I'll call James."

"Okay"

Martha stood up and George's voice rang out again from the phone.

"I love you."

Martha couldn't help but smile.

"I love you too."

She hung up and went back to her contacts list. She took a deep breath and pressed call. The number rang for nearly a minute and she was staring to lose hope when the sound of a phone being picked up off the receiver met her ears.

"Hello?

It was a woman's voice on the other end; she had a strong British accent. It wasn't a cockney one though, more like the ones you hear on the BBC.

"Hello, is this James Hamilton's number?"

There was a short pause on the other end before the woman's voice answered again.

"He lives here, yes. Who is this? This is an American number."

Martha fiddled with the bracelet on her wrist.

"My name is Martha Washington; I'm Alexander Hamilton's foster mother. Is James home?"

She took a breath, waiting for a reply.

"He's asleep. I take it it's urgent though? We haven't got a call about James' brother for a few years."

Martha sighed, now came the difficult bit.

"Yeah, Alexander's in hospital. We though James should know in case..."

She trailed off, her next words unspoken but all too painful and heavy around her.

"Oh... I... Yes, I'll get him now."

Martha put the phone down on the bed and waited, the sound of footsteps and faint talking in the background of the call.

"Hello? This is James."

It was strange, his voice. There was a hint of the same accent Martha sometimes caught Alexander slipping into. It was slightly... European? French or Spanish sounding. Unlike Alex though, his accent was mostly British, with a similar sound to that of his adoptive mother

"I'm calling about Alexander, I'm his foster mother."

James sounded nervous now; when he next spoke it was with trepidation.

"Where are you calling from? Is he still in New York? What happened?"

Martha hadn't known how little contact James and Alex had.

"We live in Virginia, and uh, he's in hospital."

"Why? What happened? Is he okay?"

Martha drew in a deep breath and clenched her fist.

"He- I don't really know how best to say this. He took an overdose either this morning or last night."

There was a few seconds of silence on the other end of the call and Martha pinched the bridge of her nose tightly, her eyes closed.

"Is he- Is he going to be okay?"

Martha felt part of herself crumple and her eyes stung slightly, there was a lump in her throat and when she spoke her voice was thick with emotion.

"He- We don't know yet. I just thought it was important you know."

"Do you have Skype? Or we could facetime? I want to see him."

Martha nodded and took another deep breath.

"Yeah, we could do that. Is there anything you what me to tell him when I needy get to see him."

She didn't want to think about that word 'when', the possible lie that implied. That Alex would be okay.

"Tell him- Tell him I'm sorry. That I don't call."

Martha nodded and smiled into the phone.

"He wrote you something, do you have a number I could text a picture of it to?"

They exchanged numbers and Martha took a photo of the letter, sending it quickly to Alexander's brother.

 _Martha (just now): I'll text you when we're ready to skype. It might be a few days._

 _James Hamilton-Devron (just now): Okay. Thanks for this._

 _Martha (just now): good bye_

 _James Hamilton-Devron (just now): bye_

Martha turned off her phone and pocketed it, sitting on the bed and holding her face in her hands. She could feel the tears rising in her throat.

She sat there and cried for a while, her throat ached with the effort she was making to stop, taking deep breaths and trying to calm herself, but it was no use. She just let herself cry it all out.

Martha walked to the bathroom and washed her face, quickly redoing her hair and rubbing some moisturizer into her skin so it was less obvious she'd been crying.

She pulled out her phone again and texted George, fumbling slightly with the small keyboard as her hands were shaking.

 _Martha (just now): Anything you need before I leave?_

 _GeorgeWashington (just now): Gil won't like it but some food might be good. Sandwiches or something, I don't know. Clothes for Gil too, he's still in pyjamas._

Martha walked to Gilbert's room, doing her best not to look at the spot where Alexander had been lying only around two hours ago.

She opened his drawers and pulled out some jeans and a tee shirt. Lafayette normally wouldn't be seen wearing an outfit that wasn't carefully chosen and matched against a men's fashion magazine, but given the situation, he most likely would care very little.

 _Martha (just now): Anything else?_

 _GeorgeWashington (just now): I'd like to read the paper, there should be one in the mail box._

 _Martha (just now): I'll call an uber now._

 _GeorgeWashington (just now): See you soon._

Martha put everything in a bag and walked downstairs. The house was cold; she hadn't thought to put on the heating with all the chaos. She opened the fridge and brought things out for sandwiches, making the food hastily and putting it in her bag.

When she arrived at the ER her throat was tight and her chest hurt with anxiety. She had no idea what she was going to find in there, George's comments on the phone hadn't done anything to quell the fear settled like ash in her lungs. In fact, it had only exacerbated it.

George stood up when she walked in, pulling her into a tight hug and kissing her very briefly on her lips.

He looked at her and took in her red rimmed eyes and helpless expression. Martha in turn took in his tightly clenched jaw and terrified eyes. She felt like she was lost at sea.

The emergency room was slightly less busy now, the crowds of college students had been cleared off home with advice about orange juice and eggs, as well as warnings not to drink so much again. Yeah, right.

Lafayette, John and Hercules were still sitting on the floor by the vending machine and by the looks of it; Lafayette was asleep against Hercules' chest, his jacket still wrapped around his shoulders.

John sat up from his lazy position on the floor and smiled weakly at Martha. It wasn't so much a smile really, more like a crooked grimace. Simply moving the muscles in your face doesn't equate to a smile.

Hercules looked at her and held up his hand in a defeated wave, not moving too much for fear of waking Lafayette. The teenager had gone through enough in the past few hours, he deserved some rest.

Martha turned to George, her eyes no less fearful after seeing her son and his friends' state.

"How is Alex? Do you know much?"

George shook his head.

"I filled out some paper work, answered all the question I could and waited here. It's been at least three hours."

Martha sat down in the seat next where George had been and closed her eyes, meaning her head back against the wall.

She would have gone over to Gilbert, said something to him, talked to him, but what could she possibly say. There were no words she could summon to try and comfort him. Saying everything would be okay was dangerous, too risky. Trying to act like everything was alright would only put everyone on edge, make them feel uneasy.

So Martha just sat there instead, sending small smiles over to Gil whenever he looked her way. He didn't return them and she didn't take it personally.

Now, she guessed, they just had to wait.

 **Aha! I've successfully waffled for about 9,000 words! I'm evil, I'm so sorry. I think I'll post a shorter chapter tomorrow. 2,000 words or so. Not sure.**


	27. Chapter 27

**Hello! Thanks for all the lovely support! The word count for this one is like 5,800**

 **SpyBritishBegone: Its really nice of you to comment about that, thanks for taking the time to see if I was okay. I guess I just want to make sure my readers enjoy this story, I don't want it to cause them pain. That's why I do trigger warnings. Thanks so much!**

 **Guest: Wow, I guess I sent you on a feels trip huh. Heed the trigger warnings my friend, I'd hate to cause you any pain. Am I writing from experience? Yes and no. Less from Lafayette and John's perspective. More from Alexander's. Even so, not really... kinda... I'm not going to get into it.**

 **LamsPickles: I know too much about fluxotine overdoses now. Seriously, this chapter took some serious research (the medical facts are probably only about 75% accurate tbh). Mullette!**

 **Trigger warnings: Suicide, ptsd, flashbacks, mention of self harm, crying.**

 **Hey, I put a poll on my profile about the story and what POVs you guys would like to see more of. Go vote!**

John watched Lafayette stand up and stretch, his long limbs pulled taught and his eyes closed. Watching him then in that awfully human position, a stretch and a yawn, made the teenager seem much more vulnerable than his usually carefree character would allow for.

He'd been asleep for a while, since before Martha had arrived, but had woken up just a moment ago. John wished he could have been able to sleep too, it would have been a welcome escape from the cold limbo of the waiting room.

He was almost jealous, he would have been if it hadn't been for the fact that Lafayette's sleep had been anything but peaceful. He had tossed and turned incessantly against John and at one point had woken up after banging his head hard against the side of the vending machine.

John caught him murmuring things to himself in French as he'd slept, though he couldn't quite make them out. Words and phrases and names and places he didn't recognise. It was obvious Lafayette was dreaming about times when he still lived in Paris.

The French teenager had awoken not long after Martha's arrival and immediately had jumped at the chance to change out of his pajamas, into garments that allowed him a greater degree of comfort, and to be frank, dignity.

Lafayette walked towards the entrance to a smaller corridor off the side of the emergency room.

There was small sign was fixed the whitewashed wall labeled men's. He pushed into the restroom, the harsh lights glinting off the sterile tiles like the sun off bleached bones in the desert.

Lafayette opened a cubicle, quickly stripping off his pajamas and changing into the jeans and shirt his mother had brought him.

He thanked the fact that he only ever bought clothes he knew looked good and could be either dressed up or down. Jeans and a tee shirt, though simple, could look pretty good if they were well made and matched right.

He stood in front of the spotted mirror for a while, staring at his reflection but not actually seeing anything. He looked down at the tap and twisted the faucet on. It was one of those old-fashioned ones. Steel, with a star like shape that got stuck when you twisted it up to a ninety-degree angle.

He turned it so that the water was the coldest possible and cupped his hands beneath the flow, splashing his face with the icy water. He could see his reflection in the dull metal basin.

He closed his eyes and the memories of that morning flooded his mind.

 _Alexander, lying across the threshold of his bedroom, lifeless._

 _Alexander, his eyes closed and his skin so pale, his lips so blue._

 _George leant over him, his face frantic, checking for breathing._

 _The curl of Alexander's fingers like that of a wilted fern._

 _How his coughs had shaken his entire body and still hadn't been enough to wake him._

 _Writhing, twisting in pain on the hospital bed, his small frame curled into a ball and his face screwed up against the white mattress._

Lafayette clenched his fists tight and straightened up, feeling the icy water splash down across his Nike tank top. He loved Martha but wished she had chosen something warmer. His arms were bare and he was shivering now.

He tried so, so hard to push the thoughts out of his mind. He really did, but they kept coming back.

 _Alexander, dangling limply in George's arms and his mother's trembling hands passing a bottle of scotch to her husband._

 _The plain of Alexander's throat as his head lolled in the back seat of the car. Pale, barely rising and falling with breath._

 _The way John's voice had sounded over the phone, small and terrified like he'd never heard it before._

 _The hesitation after he'd asked the nurse whether Alexander would be okay._

He slumped against the bone-white tiles of the restroom wall and slid to the floor, feeling his chest tightening. He willed himself not to cry, he couldn't cry. Not again. He wasn't supposed to cry at all, let alone five times before it was even noon. He was supposed to happy go lucky; _insouciant_.

Everyone needed him to be the strong one. He had to, for John, for Martha, for Herc...

 _For Alex..._

He drew in sharp breaths and felt his eyes burn with tears, but he kept them shut, not allowing them to spill over his bottoms lashes. They welled up behind his eyes lids until he could no longer open them for fear the drops would roll down his face

He dug his fingers into the sides of his legs tightly and tried to calm himself, to no avail. It was probably just best to wait this moment of _fucking weakness_ out.

There was the sound of the door opening but Lafayette didn't look up, he couldn't allow the tears to fall down his face and make eye contact with someone at the same time.

"Gil- are you... are you alright?"

It was George's voice above him. Deep and concerned and, if it was possible, even more tired sounding than it had been all those nights last week when he'd stayed up past midnight drafting debates and speeches and whatever else was required to run for senator.

He said nothing, keeping his head buried firmly in his knees. He counted the stitches along his jeans by running a trembling finger down them, like he would if he were counting Alexander through a panic attack.

 _Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit, neuf, dix._

George had seen him cry under five times in the last five years, once had been this morning. He didn't want that number to rise any higher.

There was the sound of George moving to crouch next to him and the weight of a hand on his shoulder.

"Gil, look at me, I need to see you're okay."

He shook his head. He wasn't okay.

"Not...okay."

He heard a sigh and tried to shift away, but there was nowhere to move to.

"Why can't you look at me?"

He shook his head in his knees and shuffled an inch away.

"Je vais pleurer. Je _ne peux pas_ pleuver."

 _I'll cry. I can't cry._

George made a small, frustrated sound but somehow, Lafayette could tell his anger wasn't directed at him.

"Are you able to say that in English? If you can't it's okay, you don't have to."

Lafayette thought for a few moments, reaching for the words in his crowded, spinning mind.

"I- I will cry. Can't cry."

George let out a noise of pain and Lafayette could picture his expression, clear as day. That loathsome poker face replaced with a quiet concern.

"Can you tell me why?"

His voice was calm, almost curious. Lafayette would have rolled his eyes or scoffed. He was reminded of a conversation he'd had with Hercules... had it really been just yesterday?

 _"Why do you think that is?"_

 _Lafayette laughed slightly bitterly at that, "you sound like a fucking therapist."_

He spoke now, slowly and hesitantly, cringing at his voice which was thick and tearful sounding.

"Je dois être forte tout le temps et si je ne le suis pas... Je dois être la personne que tous attendent que je sois.

 _I have to be strong all the time and if I'm not... I have to be the person everyone expects me to be._

George's hand on his arm seemed to tighten and he realised he'd spoken in French. He knew that always worried his parents.

He rushed to correct his mistake, thus his English being less than fluent sounding.

"Everyone... thinks me- no, needs me to... to be strong."

George was silent for a few moments, they both were, then he spoke. His voice was husky and choked sounding. Fuck, he never sounded like that, was he okay?

"Gil, everyone- everyone's upset. Your brother's in hospital, you have the right to be sad about that."

George tilted Lafayette's chin up so that he was looking at him. Well, facing him, he hadn't yet opened his eyes.

Gil, you can look at me, it's okay."

He cautiously opened them and at once felt the tears spill down his face. He wiped them off aggressively and put his head back in his hands, mortified.

"Gil..."

He looked back up, slowly raising his head to make eye contact with his father. His father, who now had tears in his eyes. Lafayette sat there for a moment, dumbfounded.

He'd seen George get angry before, heard his voice become slightly thick with emotion, but crying? George and crying were like antonyms in the internal Lafayette dictionary.

"It's okay Laf, please, no one thinks you can't show what you're feeling. If anything," he let out a small laugh, "I should be in your place right now. I'm the adult here."

Lafayette felt the tears rising up in his throat again and turned his face away instinctively, looking at the wall. George pulled him into a tight hug and Lafayette leant his head into his shoulder, allowing his gasps to make his entire body shake and tremble.

He realised he was sobbing uncontrollably now but couldn't seem to make himself stop, he could only think of Alex-

\- Alex; of how scared he would have been before he'd done it, how his hands must have shaken and how he'd obviously collapsed in pain in the doorway of his bedroom.

After a few minutes, he felt himself slowing down, his breathing becoming more regular and the tears in his eyes no longer welling up.

He sat back abruptly and stood up, turning towards the sink and splashing his face once again with freezing water.

George was on his feet too now, standing by the door. Lafayette found see him in the mirror behind him.

"Je suis desolé."

 _I'm sorry._

George shook his head and straightened down his coat, his face expressionless again. Lafayette sometimes wished his face showed a little more of what he was feeling. The stony, 'give nothing away' expression that he'd picked up these last few years was a little unnerving sometimes.

"There's no need to be."

Lafayette pulled his hair out of his ponytail and shook it out, pulling his fingers through it so the creases made by his hair band were straightened.

He left his hair like that, feeling the change would wake him up slightly. Make him feel more put together.

"You look like Thomas Jefferson."

George's lips were twisted into a small smirk, his hands in his coat pockets. The bathroom lighting made the higher parts of his face lighter and the deeper places darker, like a Warhol painting.

"Non, Thomas Jefferson looks... looks like me."

George laughed and Lafayette smiled somewhat. He'd have to use that line again sometime when he wasn't stuttering it with poor grammar and a strong accent.

Lafayette turned back to the mirror and examined his eyes. The skin around them looked slightly raw and pink, but he thought he might be able to attribute that to him crying earlier if anyone asked. He didn't want anyone knowing what had happened moments ago.

"Don't bite my head off again, but could you eat something?"

Lafayette sighed but then caught his father's eye in the mirror. He looked almost hesitant to be asking, worried Lafayette would snap again. His eyes held a note of concern and he had dug his hands further into his pocket.

"Bien sûr."

 _Of course._

George smiled and his hands seemed to release the pressure he was putting on the inside of his pocket.

Lafayette leaned further towards the mirror and pulled at the skin under his eyes. It was pretty obvious he'd been crying, but the redness in his skin was fading now and he thought it looked like it had been a while since he'd cried - rather than a minute or so.

"No one will be able to tell, it doesn't matter any way."

Lafayette sighed slightly and shrugged, turning to face his foster father and giving a weak, quarter smile.

"Encore, je suis desolé."

 _Again, I'm sorry._

George shook his head and led Lafayette by the shoulder out of the restroom.

"Come on, Martha has a cheese sandwich with your name on it."

They waited for the next few hours in the emergency room waiting lounge. As the college students and other patients of various ages slowly trickled out, the five of them moved to a sofa in the far corner of the room. No one talked much, no one really did anything aside from sitting there, occasionally sleeping or tapping on their phones.

Each of them had their own idiosyncrasies, ways to pass the hours. Hercules bit his nails, a habit John often said didn't suit his fashion conscious, sensible character. Martha fiddled with the bracelet on her wrist and John counted the corners of his phone, tapping at them anxiously.

John was still reading a WebMD page on fluxotine overdoses and had about fifty tabs open in safari, so many that his phone had taken to closing Google because of the overload of data being processed at once.

Hercules just sat there, mainly staring out the window into a little garden for hospitals patients or biting at his nails. Sometimes he would open a sketching app on his phone and for ten minutes or so would work on something, before signing in frustration and turning off his phone.

George kept getting calls. He'd taken the first three or so, walking a few paces away from the rest of them and calmly explaining that there had been an incident within the family and he was going to have to take some time off work. After the fourth call however, he sounded slightly annoyed.

"Surely they would have told each other I wasn't taking calls, can no one there communicate with each eachother?"

He'd turned his phone to silent and had sent an email to his office, passively aggressively explaining that surely, _surely_ , they could handle the simplest of motion definitions for a minor election debate.

John was sitting in the corner of the sofa, pressed against the arm and Lafayette. He was scrolling through another Wikipedia page.

Martha cleared her throat and sat up a little in her corner of the sofa. She was sat next to George on one side, opposite Lafayette, John, and Hercules.

"It's nearly four o'clock. John, Hercules, I think when it turns six you should make preparations to leave. Provided we hear news about Alex by then."

Hercules shrugged and looked at Lafayette, concerned. He was asleep again.

"I... I don't really want to leave in case something happens."

Martha sucked her teeth and pulled at the bracelet on her wrist.

"John, your father won't worry if you're not home? Does he know you're here?"

George looked up at John at that moment and watched his face pale slightly, his eyes taking on a new, apprehensive light that George recognised as the same one Alex got in his face when asked about his previous foster parents. He didn't like it one bit.

John took a deep breath, contemplating telling them he was living with Herc at the time being. He didn't suppose they would make a big deal out of it, they'd probably just disapprove.

"I- Well..."

He looked at Hercules for approval and the taller boy next to him shrugged as if to say 'what do you have to lose?'

"I'm staying at Herc's for the time being. My father and I had a..."

 _He threatened to kick me out for dating your son and slapped me, so I smashed his expensive vase and ran out._

"...Disagreement."

Martha's mouths formed a small, surprised 'o' shape and she narrowed her eyes in confusion.

"Did he make you leave, or did you?"

George's voice was steady, calm. That poker face he'd learned to put on so well was normally slightly unsettling but currently, it made it easier to talk about the incident.

"I left. Honestly though, it's not a big deal. I just didn't want my siblings to have to put up with me and dad arguing all the time."

John tried at a small laugh but sounded forced, like the lie he'd just told. Well, it was a half lie. He'd left because his father had hit him; something he'd never done before. The fact that his siblings would lead a more peaceful home life was just a happy side effect.

"How long have you been staying at the Mulligans' home?"

John counted on his fingers, it hadn't been that long.

"I don't know, maybe five or six days."

George's gaze had turned shrewd now and he was surveying John with keen eyes, his expression looked awfully knowing.

"What did you argue about?"

Hercules' eyes met his and he hesitated, now surely wasn't the time to come out to Lafayette and Alexander's parents, no matter the suspicions they may or may not have had.

Martha had nudged George subtly with her elbow and shook her head so slightly that Hercules and John didn't notice the movement.

"Nothing... really, it's stupid anyway."

They left it there. George looked like he would have pressed the matter further but remained silent, his eyes didn't leave John however. He wondered if George had seen him when he'd still had that bruise on his cheek.

John closed his eyes and sat back on the sofa. No news had come in about Alex since early that morning, and that had just been what George had told them.

Yet, they hadn't got the dreaded piece of news that had plagued their imaginations all day. The idea that Alexander might not make it had crept into John's head like a ghost, making its presence known through terrifying notions that he didn't want to entertain, through reoccurring fears that itched at the backs of his eyeballs, through unwanted ideas that scratched themselves into the inside of his skull.

Like a prisoner tallying their days of imprisonment.

But John had to remind himself; he couldn't make assumptions too soon. He couldn't get his hopes up, but he couldn't give up on Alexander either. That horrible, suffocating middle ground was in a way, much more difficult than hearing the very worst. He had no idea what to expect, he hadn't even seen Alexander for a few days now.

It was nearly five by the time a nurse walked into the room, asking to see George and Martha. Lafayette was still asleep, Hercules' jacket still wrapped around the French teenager; he'd been shivering.

George and Martha had immediately got to their feet when the nurse had walked in. She was holding a clipboard to her chest and a surgical mask was pulled away from her mouth and over her chin. Dark circles were smudged under her eyes like stains.

John stood up too, his posture was ridged and his shoulders were tensed.

The nurse looked down at the clipboard and then back up at the family.

"George and Martha Washington?"

Both adults nodded assent in unison, Martha's hand frozen in the act of pushing a bead down her bracelet and George's knuckles nearly white against the dark wool of his coat.

She beckoned them over to the doorway of the corridor and held out her clipboard for them to read. The paper was illustrated with many words and graphs, confusing and complex to both the Washingtons' tired brains.

"Hamilton underwent Gastric suction at around forty-five minutes past six this morning due to an overdose taken of Fluoxetine and Ferrous Fumarate at an unspecified time this morning or last night."

Martha's hand had found George's now and their grip was tight, locked together in a hold Thor himself would be hard-pressed to break.

"Approximately 1740mg of the Fluoxetine was ingested and of this, less than half was absorbed into the bloodstream. The gastric suction was successful in removing remaining drugs in the stomach. At six forty-six this morning, a serotonin overdose induced seizure was observed for around forty-five seconds in the patient. To combat the seizure an injection of phenobarbital was administered, as well as Cyproheptadine, an antidote to serotonin."

George glanced at Martha, his expression a mixture of fear and bewilderment. Could she get to the point? None of this meant anything to them, currently they only needed to know if Alexander would be okay.

"Is he okay? Will he be okay?"

The nurse bit her lip and looked back down at her clipboard.

"If you're asking whether he'll live, the answer is most likely the affirmative. I wouldn't get entirely complacent yet, but you can take comfort in knowing that currently, his chances of survival are higher than those of the opposite. His recovery process, however, will take a good deal of time and even then, there will be long-term effects from an overdose of this magnitude."

Martha looked as though she could have wept, from relief of fear, George wasn't sure. Her lip trembled slightly and she closed her eyes, overcome.

George's expression was still stony, his eyes narrowed and he gripped Martha's hand even tighter.

"What do you mean, 'most likely the affirmative'? Is there any doubt?"

The nurse sighed and flipped back through her clipboard.

"He's not yet breathing properly without the help of an oxygen cannula, but we're hoping this issue will be resolved as soon as the serotonin antidotes take effect fully."

George released his grip on Martha's hand and instead draped his hand over her shoulder.

"What long-term effects can we expect?"

The nurse, her name badge was obscured by the clipboard and a green staff lanyard, pulled another sheet from the pile.

"Migraines and seizures are relatively common in the months after an overdose, though neither always require trips to the emergency room. Short term disorientation and headaches can also be expected. Rarer health conditions after Fluoxetine overdoses may be observed, you'll be given more information on those in due course."

George nodded curtly and turned around to face John and Hercules. They were watching the three of them intently, John's fingers had an iron grip on the back of the sofa and George sent the two of them a small smile.

"Oh, there are just a few more things to be observed about your son, aside from the overdose. He's at a very low body weight and it's hospital policy not to discharge patients until they've reached an at least near healthy BMI."

Martha was nodding again now, her hands were trembling somewhat but her voice was steady.

"How long could we expect that time to be?"

The nurse tugged at her lanyard and flipped through the pages on her clipboard.

"Another few weeks, most likely. Another thing noted by staff is that the patient has seemingly self-inflicted cuts along one forearm that really should have been treated professionally when they were inflicted; they're a few days old now. Did either of you know about these?"

George and Martha shook their heads, a plummeting feeling in their stomachs.

"Not any that required the hospital. I mean, we knew he'd self-harmed before, but..."

The nurse pursed her lips and looked down at her clipboard again.

"I do want to remind the both of you, your son is still in critical condition. He'll be observed tonight and in the morning reviewed to see whether or not this ranking can be lowered. These next few days will be instrumental in whether or not he makes a full recovery."

George felt himself nodding but was internally elsewhere. Some of the crushing worry that had been pressing against his shoulders had lifted. Of course, the nurse's extremely realist attitude hadn't completely dissipated his fears. She hadn't said outright that Alexander would live.

"Thank you, so, so much."

Martha's voice was choked somewhat but a tinge of colour had reappeared in her cheeks. The nurse smiled and George was relieved to see her eyes followed suit.

"You look like you have family to share the news with, I'll let you get on with it."

Martha turned around but George paused, holding out his arm as if to tell the nurse to wait.

"When can we see him?"

She smiled again, stopping in her tracks towards the door.

"Not tonight. If his condition is better tomorrow morning, which it hopefully will be, you can see him. You should know, he might not be conscious for a few days."

George nodded once and he and Martha turned around, looking across the room to where John and Hercules were standing rigidly still, both expectant and terrified like a deer in front of a hunter's rifle.

They both walked back over to where the three of them were sitting and Martha crouched down in front of Lafayette, gently shaking him awake with a small smile on her face.

"Gil, Gil?"

He opened his eyes slowly, with a sluggish glance at his surroundings he sat up and stretched.

"News... of Alex?"

Martha nodded and pulled her son into a tight hug, stroking his head with a gentle hand and squeezing his shoulders. Lafayette pulled back quickly, at once wide awake.

"Is he okay? Qu'est qu'ils t'ont dit?"

 _What did they say?_

Martha hesitated slightly. The news they'd been given was good, or at the very least could inspire hope, but there was a stark difference between Alex living and Alex being okay.

"She said the chances he'll live are greater than the chances he won't."

Lafayette was silent for a moment. His intelligent were eyes still clouded from drowsiness but when he spoke, his accent was less pronounced and his words carefully chosen.

"But, what of his seizure? Can we know for sure he will live? It was not certain before he would... he would-" the teenager's next word was slightly choked, stuttering like a record scratch. "-die. What has changed?"

Martha sat back down and let Lafayette sink his head back onto her shoulder. She rubbed her thumb in soothing, subconscious circles against his bicep.

"The stomach pumping worked, they gave him some counter medication for the serotonin. The nurse talked about long-term plans for him. She seemed to think he would make it."

Lafayette looked over his shoulder to where George was talking with John and Hercules. John's complexion was grey with worry but his eyes, those amber eyes, instead of looking fearful, now merely looked exhausted.

He stood up, squeezing Martha's hand gently and making his way towards his friends.

John's bottoms lip trembled as he embraced Hercules and Lafayette together. Their arms gripped each other tightly, Lafayette's head pressing almost painfully into Hercules' shoulder and John's fingers in a vice-like grip on the French teenager's forearm.

They stayed like that, locked in a clenched fist of silent emotion, for a few minutes. John took a deep breath and looked up, smiling weakly at George who was just a few paces opposite them.

Lafayette turned to his father and looked at him with pleading eyes.

"When can we see him? Ce sera pour bientôt?"

 _Will it be soon?_

George nodded, at once feeling pity crash over him again.

"Yeah. Most likely tomorrow."

Lafayette rubbed a hand through his afro and frowned.

"Are we staying here?"

"I will, I think you and Martha should go home and get some sleep."

Lafayette frowned and shook his head, eyebrows at once furrowing and a defiantly desperate expression dawning on his exhausted face.

"I cannot! Papa! What if something happens? I must be here! Besides, I- I cannot return back there..."

George sighed, caught in ambivalence. On one hand, he couldn't allow Lafayette to hurt himself staying up all night in the hospital. He had napped in the waiting room, but that hardly counted as rest; he'd spent half the time in and out of sleep.

On the other hand, Lafayette had been the one to find Alexander this morning, lying on the threshold of his bedroom. Surely forcing him to return to the place that had transpired so soon was poor judgment.

"I- you have to sleep, Gil. That's not up for debate- no, don't look at me like that."

Lafayette had frowned and folded his arms definitely, pouting like a little kid refused their favourite toy. The stakes now, however, were higher.

"Je peux- I can sleep here! Please, Papa..."

George forced himself to shake his head, reaching out a large hand to take Lafayette's shoulder firmly.

"You can go home with Hercules and John. Provided it won't be any trouble for the Mulligans."

Lafayette's face softened and he grudgingly nodded, breaking away from his father's grip to turn around.

He held up his hand in a 'just a second' motion to George and hastened to where John and Hercules were sat on the couch.

"Herc, est que-ce je-"

He stopped himself quickly, slapping the side of his face lightly before continuing, this time in English.

"Can I rest at your house tonight? I do not want to go back to mine yet, C'est trop..."

He didn't continue, not sure there was a single word that could encompass the way he felt when the memories closed their fist around his mind. Neither English nor French could articulate the way his hairs stood up on the back of his neck and the sudden feeling of nausea in the pit of his stomach.

Fear did nothing to cover it.

Hercules' face was instantly empathetic and compassionate. Hercules rarely just pitied. He did, of course he did, but it was never hollow pity or just plain pity. He always tried to put himself in the shoes of the person before him. He had the tact to get on with things, not let himself indulge the tendency other people had to wallow.

"Yeah, course you can. What are Mr- I mean, George and Martha doing?"

Lafayette sighed and tugged at a stray curl.

"George is staying here. Martha, putain, I don't know. I don't want to leave her alone."

Lafayette turned to face his parents, they were talking quietly at the opposite end of the room. Lafayette walked over, his hands thrust in his jeans pockets.

"Mamam, es-tu- are you staying here or?"

Martha smiled and shrugged. She looked tired, her hair was pulled back hastily in a ponytail and her face was free of any makeup.

"If you're going to Herc's place, I'll stay here with George."

Lafayette thought for a moment, tilting his head pensively so that his curls bounced to the left.

"You're not tired?"

Martha smiled gently and shook her head.

"I couldn't sleep if I tried."

Lafayette pulled Hercules' jacket tighter around himself and looked towards the glass doors of the waiting room. Outside the sky was just starting to fade to a dark blue, October brought the evenings in quicker but it still surprised Lafayette that they'd been at the ER from six that morning 'till now.

He turned back to his parents and hugged them both for a few moments. He thought he'd probably given and received more hugs today than he had in the last month.

"Send me a text if something happens."

George nodded and Lafayette walked with John and Hercules out to the parking lot. Henry's car was parked right by the exit of the lot, it's engine still purring. He'd obviously not been waiting long.

Hercules' house was quiet when they pulled up in the driveway. His brother was at college, both his parents still at work.

Hercules had offered that Lafayette sleep in his bed and he take the couch with John, his reasoning being that Lafayette would sleep better there, but his friend obstinately refused.

"Laf, please. You're exhausted, just take my room."

Lafayette shook his head and remained defiant, seated firmly on the couch.

"It's fine Herc, this is fine."

John shook his head from behind Lafayette, sending Hercules a resigned, 'It's not worth it' look.

Lafayette brushed his teeth in the bathroom, Hercules had his old toothbrush under the sink from when he'd left it there after a sleepover. He pressed harder with the brush, feeling the sharp bristles scrape painfully against his teeth and gums.

The toothpaste at the corner of his mouth was becoming pink now, its pearly white colour fading into crimson until red trickled down Lafayette's chin. He spat into the sink and wiped his mouth hurriedly, wincing as he rinsed and turning on the tap to watch the red flow down the plug hole.

He gripped the sides of the ceramic basin tightly, closing his eyes and taking long, drawn out breaths.

Alex on his bedroom floor, pale and cold. Alex in George's arms; unresponsive. Alex in the back seat of the car- _Alex on the hospital bed- Alex in pain- AlexhurtAlexdying-AllhisfaultAlexAlex._

 _Alex- I'm so sorry._


	28. Chapter 28

**Hey! Thanks for like, six reviews on chapter 27 already before even an entire day had passed. Damn, I love you guys.**

 **BritishSpyBegone: Yeah, even though I'm the author for this, sometimes it's a difficult story to write because it can be quite painful and a touchy kind of subject to approach.**

 **Guest: don't apologise! Hey, if you ever get an account, hit me up if you wanna talk. I can probably understand some of what you've been through.**

 **I keep making Hamilton mood boards, I've made one for John, Alexander, Lafayette, Hercules, George and Martha as well as a Lams themed one. I wanna show you guys but the is website pretty much allows no links anywhere on their site. It's annoying.**

 **Incidentally, are there any French people/ speakers reading this and laughing at me butchering your language? Please, I try.**

 **A quick question, do you guys see an improvement in my writing since chapter one? I hope I've gotten better, my earlier chapters are not amazing. Also, do you guys have a favourite chapter? I don't know, a line or scene you liked a lot?**

Lafayette awoke pressed firmly into the sofa, his head lolling backward over the arm and his body curled to fit the shape of the cushions behind him. It wasn't an uncomfortable sofa by any means, the suede was soft and clean and it wasn't so old that the weight of many bodies and time had stiffened the cushions or hardened the stuffing. Nevertheless, his back hurt like shit.

He didn't know the exact time, but it just _felt_ like the early morning. The blinds of the living room were pulled down and from his position, he couldn't see through the cracks between them. Though, from the way the light glowed softly at each gap, ambient and dark blue, it couldn't have been past six thirty.

John was still asleep on the far side of the sofa. His face was obscured by layers of blanket so that only the top of his dark curls were visible, wild and unruly from night-time tossing and turning.

Lafayette slowly shifted so that he was halfway out from under the duvet that Hercules had brought in for them. His phone was charging a few feet away from the sofa, sitting on the table where the Mulligans (and John in recent days, he supposed) ate dinner.

Quietly, so as not to wake his friend, he slid so that he was perched on the arm of the sofa and then gently swung his legs up and around until he was stood up, now cold feet curling into the soft carpet.

He unplugged his phone and turned down the notification sounds, cautiously tucking himself back under the blankets as he opened his phone contacts. He had no missed calls but a few texts. Some from school friends, which he disregarded and some from George, which he opened with a trembling finger.

 _GeorgeWashington (at 10:37 last night): No new developments, nurses aren't worried._

 _GeorgeWashington (at 11:56 last night): Had another seizure. Just happened. Will text later, when I can._

Lafayette gripped the side of his iPhone harder and read the next text, a sick feeling in his stomach.

 _GeorgeWashington (at 1:16 this morning): It seems okay. Nurse said it was disappointing but not unexpected. Set him back a few days of recovery, doesn't seem life-threatening._

Lafayette took a few minutes figuring out a response. His English, which had been less than adept these last few days, was always slower in morning's disoriented and sleep-deprived haze.

 _Lafrançaise (just now): Is it too early to come now?_

He closed the conversation while he waited for George to reply, opening Instagram and scrolling through his feed absentmindedly.

He hadn't posted in about a while now, the last photo being of Alex, John, Hercules and him at the park during the summer holidays.

It was a nice photo. John was on his back, asleep in the sunlight and Hercules lay on his front. He was propped up on his elbows, looking up at Lafayette taking the picture with a grin.

Alex was reading something in the far left of the photo. Well, he had a book open in front of him but his attention was focused on John, who, incidentally, was shirtless. There was a small smile on his face and he looked more peaceful than Lafayette had ever seen him.

That was before they'd started school again. Before 'the shit had hit the fan' as the Americans were so fond of saying.

 _De plus en plus merdique._

A notification dropped from the top of his screen and he hastily opened his father's contact again, reading the text he'd just been sent.

 _GeorgeWashington (just now): you could, but you'd just be sitting here. Try and catch up on sleep. Eat something._

Lafayette rubbed his brow and looked back at the blinds. There was no change in the light outside. It was still early and he didn't think Henry would like having to come and pick him up right now. Public transport in Virginia was inefficient and slow, though Lafayette supposed, given the size of the state, it was difficult to link larger towns and cities with anything but highways.

 _Lafrançaise (just now): when will you come home?_

George responded almost instantly, the little ellipses loading on the screen for a few seconds before his text popped up.

 _GeorgeWashington (just now): Martha will come and pick you up and take you home. I'm staying here for the time being._

Lafayette bit his lip and read over the text a few times, thinking.

 _Lafrançaise (just now): Why do you stay? Is he awake?_

 _GeorgeWashington (just now): No. He's a minor, I have to stay here if there's a danger something could happen._

 _Lafrançaise (just now): is there a danger?_

 _GeorgeWashington (just now): I don't know. Hopefully not. Martha will be around at about nine or so. Sleep. It's early._

 _Lafrançaise (just now): Okay._

He turned off his phone and rested his head back against the arm of the sofa, closing his eyes and willing himself to fall asleep again. It wasn't so much that he was tired, or that he wanted to lessen his father's worries. In fact, he was actually rather dreading what would happen if he fell asleep.

Dreams (he refused to call them nightmares) of Alexander, of Paris and the boys at his old school, of the months between his parent's death and meeting George and Martha, would plague him.

He was too lazy, however, to stand up and work his way through the chaos that had burst through the metaphorical door of his life yesterday. He'd honestly rather just close his eyes and deal with dreams than have to confront anything that was actually happening to him.

Perhaps it was luck, or misfortune, that he did fall asleep. He didn't think he would sleep for long, and he didn't. It was probably less than an hour before he was awoken by John stirring opposite him. A sock-clad foot kicked him hard in the skin and he jolted awake, opening his eyes to a particularly scenic view of the ceiling.

"Laf? You awake?"

He rolled his eyes and turned onto his side, rubbing some sleep from his eyes.

"Yeah."

He heard John sit up and felt the soft weight of blanket falling on him. He looked up to see John standing unsteadily, pushing the curls out of his eyes and rolling his shoulders.

"Any news on Alex?"

Lafayette rolled onto his other side so that he was facing away from John. He didn't want to see his friend's expression when he told him about Alex's less than desirable, though admittedly not dire, condition.

"Il a eu une autre crise à... environ minuit."

 _He had another seizure at... around midnight._

He heard John's movements stop and there was a pause. The air around them crackled with unspoken words and John's sharp intake of breath came like a puncture to the silence.

"What?"

Lafayette focused on the way the suede changed colour if he brushed it different ways.

"Is he- Is he going to be okay?"

Lafayette rolled onto his back and surveyed his friend. John's face was pale. It struck him that all of them, as well as going through an extreme change in their everyday life and emotions, also looked different too. Paler, more tired and drawn.

"Papa said it was alright. Les infirmièrs pensent il sera bien, en temps voulu."

 _The nurses think he'll be okay, in time._

John sat back down on the sofa, crushing Lafayette's legs. He bit back an _'fais_ _attention!'_ and shifted slightly, moving closer to John.

"Je suis- Je suis vraiment désolé."

 _I'm -I'm so sorry._

John shook his head and closed his eyes for a moment. When he looked back up at Lafayette there was a terrible fear contained in his eyes, but also something that could be at least mistaken for hope.

"He'll be okay. He's got too much to do here to leave so soon. Anyway, he's made it this far. Been through worse."

Lafayette laughed quietly and put his arm around John's shoulder. He supposed his friend was right. Alexander had far too many plans and dreams left to abandon them all. The little lion would find his way back to make them happen.

Lafayette believed that.

Or at least, he had to make himself believe that.

The next few hours were quiet and lazy. Hercules awoke at around eight thirty and they made breakfast together in the kitchen. It wasn't like all the times they'd cooked together on sleepovers or for fun on the weekends. It was very quiet, almost eerie. They poured out cereal and Hercules insisted Lafayette have some honey and lemon tea. He loved Herc, he really did, but he could be the most 'mom' person sometimes.

"Herc, please, I'm not sick. I don't even like..." he clicked his fingers, aggravated that he couldn't find the word.

"L'infusion de citron..."

John opened his mouth to translate, but closed it again. He thought what Lafayette was saying was pretty self-explanatory. He was leant against the counter, nursing a cup of coffee and watching the two bicker.

"Come on, you sound like you've got a cold coming on and this stuff is relaxing."

John snorted into his coffee and both Hercules and Lafayette turned to glare at him.

"You just sound like an old married couple. You're such a mom, Herc."

Hercules rolled his eyes. Usually, this expression was done in humour, but now it just looked irritated. They were all snappy and short-tempered today. He dropped a tea bag into a mug, filling it up with boiling water and placing it carefully into Lafayette's hands.

"You're in my house, I'm _in loco parentis._ "

John shook his head and took another sip of coffee.

"Two major flaws there, one, this is your parents' house- not yours. Two, I'm older than you so..."

Hercules shook his head, dismissing John's statement and sat down in one off the chairs at the kitchen table.

Martha arrived at five to nine in their car, tired and worn looking. She clearly hadn't gotten the chance to sleep much the previous night and seemingly didn't even have the energy to fake a smile.

Lafayette hadn't taken very much at all with him to Hercules' house. A jacket, the pajamas he'd worn to the hospital and his phone. He put all this in the back of the car, climbing into the passenger seat with a small wave to Hercules and John who stood in the doorway of the house.

"Anything new on Alexander?"

Martha dragged her top teeth over her lip and glanced out her side mirror.

"Well, the seizure wasn't out of the ordinary. They think he'll get through it, though it set his recovery time back a little."

Lafayette bit at his knuckle and winced. His gums were raw and sensitive from the _extremely thorough_ brushing he'd given his teeth last night.

"When will we see him?"

Martha took a left and they passed the turn off onto John's street. They were nearly home.

"Maybe today, almost definitely tomorrow. He probably won't be awake until Wednesday though."

It struck Lafayette then that it was Monday. Everyone else would be at school. Had George or Martha called in for him and Alexander?

"Did you... did you call the school?"

Martha nodded and they turned onto their road, slowing down as they drew nearer and nearer to the place Lafayette had come to call home.

"They've given Alexander as long as it takes to recover and you about a week or so."

Lafayette sighed. The prospect of going back to school anytime soon made him feel ill. He knew Alexander would be the opposite. He'd want to be up and about as soon as he could, writing insatiably and proving he was okay, even if he wasn't.

They pulled up to the driveway and got out. Martha opened up and they stepped inside, she immediately moved to the living room to open some curtains.

Lafayette walked into the kitchen and put his things down on the table. He looked out across the garden, watching the way the leaves had progressed from auburn to russet brown, when a small shape crouched by the trees caught his eye.

He frowned and squinted at the figure, realising a second later that it was a cat. He furrowed his brows and thought for a moment. Did any of their neighbours have cats? He didn't think so.

"Maman! There's a cat in the backyard."

He heard the clink of Martha's keys being set down on the table and her footsteps drew nearer, crossing the floorboards of the hallway.

She stood next to him and he lifted his finger, pointing to where the cat was sat contentedly in the shadow of a large elm tree.

Martha smiled slightly and watched the cat for a moment or two. It licked its paws and stood up, prowling the garden slowly with a long, smooth slink.

"It looks like a... a... un chat errant."

Martha looked at him for a moment, considering this.

"A stray? Yeah. I think so too."

Lafayette turned to the fridge, considering its contents.

"Do you think it is hungry?"

Martha grinned softly and shrugged. She looked back at the cat who'd now sprawled across the patio. It was only a few feet from the glass door.

Lafayette opened the fridge and rummaged through it, eventually finding a pack of sandwich chicken that was still good for a few more days.

"This okay?"

Martha took the food from him and nodded, walking towards the cupboard where they kept the plates. She put a few strips of the meat on the plate and walked back towards the glass door.

Lafayette watched, intrigued, as she slowly pushed down the handle and gently opened the door. The cat was watching her now, it's dark eyes considering her with a suspicious, wary stare.

Martha inched forward and the cat stood up in an instant, poised to dart off and take cover under the trees. Martha stopped too and knelt down slowly, one hand holding the plate and the other open wide and held out to the cat. It was like she was showing it she had nothing to hide.

Martha placed the plate on the patio stones and stepped backward, moving back up the back step and standing beside Lafayette.

They watched in silence as the cat hunkered down next to the plate and sniffed the food tentatively. All at once, it began to eat the meat at a ravenous pace, it's small head bent low into the plate.

Martha grinned and Lafayette managed a smile, watching the cat who had actually just reminded him of someone.

"You know, it reminds me a little of-"

"Alex?"

Lafayette nodded, watching the cat chew on the chicken with large, snapping bites.

The cat did indeed bear a resemblance to the teenager, at least, it did to Martha and Lafayette. Maybe it was just that Alexander was running constantly through their minds at a break-neck pace those days.

It was small and scrappy with jutting bones and dark brown fur. Its belly was streaked with a coffee brown and it had mahogany coloured, large eyes. The way it moved, graceful but tentative and wary, mirrored Alexander too. The cat's instinct to run as soon as Martha had stepped too near it was achingly familiar to Lafayette; Alexander did the exact same thing.

The cat finished and miaowed contentedly, taking a few steps nearer the door of the kitchen.

Lafayette cautiously stepped down into the garden and moved towards the cat, his hand outstretched towards the tiny feline.

To his surprise and pleasure, the cat brushed its head firmly against his leg and purred affectionately. He crouched down and scratched the cat behind its ears, stroking along its dark coat gently.

"I think it likes you."

Lafayette glanced over his shoulder at Martha and grinned, letting his hand glide down the cat's back. He could feel all the knobs of its spine.

"Can we... I've always wanted a cat..."

Lafayette spoke hesitantly, internally crossing his fingers and praying to all the gods he could think of.

"Keep him? I don't know. George is more of a dog person and as cute as it is, it might not want to live with us."

Lafayette pouted angrily and rubbed the little cat's head gently.

"But... It might be hurt on the street. We're near a highway, what if it were to get hit by a car?"

Martha pursed her lips and considered the cat for a few moments, taking in its small purr and closed eyes.

"Bring it inside and we'll see what George thinks."

Lafayette grinned and gently slid his hands under the cat's belly, lifting it gently and holding it to his chest as he walked back towards the house.

Funnily enough, the cat didn't squirm or scratch at him. For a second, it froze up but soon after rubbed its head gently against Lafayette's chest.

He would have liked to think the cat was warming to him, or that he was a sort of comforting presence but he knew it was probably because he'd bought the cat's affections with food. He was no romanticist, he knew cats were likely to 'love' anyone that fed them.

He put the cat down on the kitchen floor and watched as it stretched, it's paws pushed out in front of it as it lowered its small body to the floor.

"Can we name it?"

Martha pursed her lips, considering this for a few moments. She didn't want Lafayette getting attached, in case they couldn't keep him. Then again, they couldn't keep calling it, 'it'.

"Okay. What do you think?

Lafayette grinned, watching as the cat rubbed itself against the chair leg.

Martha laughed as a thought struck her.

"How about Alexander?"

Lafayette's face crept into a grin and he knelt down in a crouch, tickling the cat under its chin.

"Yeah. It suits him."

So 'it' became 'him' and 'cat' became 'Alexander'. Lafayette knew it was a bit stupid, and if the worst events did transpire (he didn't want to dwell on that thought) the cat would only serve to remind him painfully of his brother.

Alexander hopped up onto the kitchen table and yawned, his mouth opening wide to show small, sharp teeth and a rough, porous pink tongue.

"He's cute, non."

Martha nodded and petted Alexander's head affectionately, watching the cat preen with the affection.

Then, a thought struck Lafayette and he closed his eyes, a laugh ripping from his throat and shaking his head slowly.

"Did we just name a feral tomcat after Alexander?"

Martha winced slightly, her eyes shut and her hand paused, hovering over Alexander's head.

"Perhaps not the best idea, considering the _other_ connotations of the word 'tomcat'."

Lafayette chuckled and turned to the sink, filling a bowl halfway with water.

"Maybe it can be a... I'm not sure the word. A joke because two things are the opposite but called the same?"

Martha shrugged.

"I know what you mean, I don't think there's a word for it."

Lafayette put the bowl down in front of Alexander and they watched as he lapped up the water greedily, his whiskers dripping when he lifted his head up to watch them.

Lafayette tore his eyes away from the cat and looked at his watch.

He was then brought out of the momentary happiness and novelty of a new pet, tugged back into the reality that Alexander was in hospital. That Alexander had tried to kill himself. That Alexander still might not make it.

His face must have fallen noticeably because Martha nudged him with her elbow and brushed his cheek tenderly.

"Gil, you okay?"

He gave a small murmur, a non-answer and turned his face away to watch leaves flutter past the window.

"Will we see Alex today?"

Martha pulled out her phone and opened her husband's contact, pressing call and holding the phone to her ear.

It rang once, then twice, then he picked up.

"Hi, George. Everything okay over there?"

Lafayette could practically hear George's shrug and a sigh followed a few seconds later.

"As okay as things can be, I suppose."

His voice was haggard sounding, revealing a kind of vulnerability and uncertainty Lafayette didn't think he'd ever heard from him before. He wondered if George knew he was there, he wondered if George would talk that way if he knew he was there.

"Gil wanted to know if he would get to see Alexander today."

George responded a second later, there was the sound of his tongue clucking like he was thinking. Lafayette imagined the way his fingers would drum against the nearest surface, in the way they always did when he was considering something.

"I... I think so. The seizure last night set him back a bit, so he won't be conscious yet. Still, I think you could come this afternoon."

Lafayette leant against the fridge and closed his eyes, feeling a magnet digging into his back he shifted and watched Alexander hop off the table and stroll down the hallway, his tail stuck confidently in the air, its tip waving slightly.

"George... On a totally unrelated matter, do you like cats?"

Martha asked suddenly, watching Alexander turn to climb the stairs cautiously.

There was a pause on George's end and when he responded it was cautious, contained almost.

"They're...fine. Why?"

Martha watched Alexander's tail disappear around the banister and shrugged, her voice becoming slightly sheepish.

"There just so happens to be a stray one walking up our stairs right now. We might have fed it and named it too..."

George was quiet for a few seconds. Lafayette could tell he was thinking hard, at a loss for words.

"What did you name it?"

Martha smiled slightly and brushed a stay piece of fur off the kitchen table.

"Alexander."

There was more silence and Alexander miaowed again, there was the sound of him digging his nails and scratching the carpet on the stairs and the padding of paws ascending upwards.

"You... when? When did this happen?"

George's voice was slightly exasperated, but Lafayette knew his father well. He picked up on the edge of humour in his tone. Lafayette fancied that on the other end, George was trying not to laugh.

"Just now. He was in the garden, Gil wanted to feed him and one thing led to another."

George actually did laugh this time, it was short and soft but definitely real. Lafayette thought that, strangely, laughing felt better when you had such horrible things looming over you. You appreciated the things that you had more, because you had just realised how easily they could be taken away.

"You two are too sentimental. A cat... Martha..."

"I'm not saying he'll stay forever. He's here now but the next time he goes outside, he probably won't come back."

Lafayette furrowed his brows and pouted at his mother, who shrugged.

"I don't know, once you feed them they stick around."

George's voice was weary again, exhaustion and worry personified.

"Well... We haven't had a pet before. Might be nice," Martha reasoned, pulling again at her bracelet.

George let the subject drop, turning the conversation back to Alexander, the hospital and everything Lafayette had tried to avoid thinking about.

"The nurse said anytime after two is okay. They're taking blood and things at noon, so when that's over I suppose we can see him."

Lafayette turned out of the kitchen at this, having heard all he needed. He walked down the hallway with his hands deep in his pockets counting the steps as he followed Alexander up towards the landing.

 _Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit, neuf, dix, onze, douze, treize, quatorze, quinze._

It felt so much like he was counting Alexander through a panic attack. Maybe that was what he was subconsciously doing, but for himself.

He reached the landing and obstinately refused to look anywhere near Alexander's bedroom. He actually reached up his hand and held it to one side of his face, like a horse's blinkers.

He walked into his bedroom and slammed the door shut behind him. His bed was unmade and his curtains still drawn. Exactly how he'd left it when he'd woken up yesterday to the groans of pain on the landing.

Lafayette went to his bathroom and showered. He felt grimy, unclean almost. He just wanted to wash everything away and surround himself in steam and water rather than tense atmospheres and concerned whispers.

He washed his hair and closed his eyes against the spray. The pounding of the water around him drowned out his thoughts until all he could think about was the steady rhythm of the shower. It was just louder than the screaming voice inside his head, so he could silence that for at least a few minutes.

He made himself take deep breaths again, tapping against the shower tiles in an 'un, deux, trois, un, deux, trois' rhythm.

He stepped out of the shower and dried off, changing into jeans and a fresh shirt. He felt no different. The shower had done nothing to erase the itching, crawling sensation across his skin.

He made his bed, wincing and flinching away when memories of waking up yesterday caught him.

 _Light pooled at the foot of his bed in grey puddles. Why was he awake? Surely it was very early in the morning? Then, a small groan of pain, unmistakably coming from the hallway outside. He swung his legs out of bed and walked to the door. A patch of dawn shone onto the hall floor. Alexander's hand was laying across the threshold of his bedroom._

Lafayette dropped the corner of the duvet he was holding and felt his shoulders shaking as he sank to his knees.

He wasn't aware of time passing, he could just feel himself on the floor, on his knees, staring blankly ahead at the wall.

 _Alexander's face came into view as he moved closer. He lay there, somewhat awkwardly, with one arm underneath his torso and his face pressed into the carpet. Lafayette vaguely thought that he couldn't be very comfortable, that he must be cold... a stupid thought, considering Alexander was lying seemingly lifeless on the floor._

His eyes were still fixed on the wall opposite him. Sun was filtering through the blinds so that a section of the wall was striped with dark grey shadows.

Everything was on its side now. Or... Hang on, was he on his side? He felt his shoulder pressed against the floor and his cheek on the cold wood. Had he fallen over?

 _He felt his legs give way but he caught himself against the wall before he fell, his eyes still locked on Alexander. Then, he burst through the door into Maman et Papa's room, a yell on his lips._

Then, he snapped out of it.

Lafayette suddenly became aware of his position. He looked down at himself, lain on the floor like a toppled bowling pin. What had just happened? How could he have been unaware he had fallen?

The French teenager sat up and used the side of his bed to get to his feet. A nagging, uncomfortable feeling persisted deep in his gut, telling him something was wrong.

He dismissed this. He was _fine_. He was _aggressively_ fine. This was normal, of course remembering what had happened would make him feel funny.

Lafayette sat down on his bed and closed his eyes. He was fine. He just needed to focus on Alexander for the time being. It was him who had been hurting so bad that he'd tried to end it all. It would be selfish of him to think about anything other than his foster brother.

Martha was calling his name from downstairs so he quickly fumbled with his bedclothes, smoothing out the sheets and duvet so they were free of wrinkles.

"Oui, Maman?"

She called back a moment later, her voice slightly muffled from all the way downstairs.

"Come and eat something!"

He wriggled into a jumper on the back of his chair and made his way downstairs. Before he opened the door to his bedroom, however, he closed his eyes and led himself along the hallway and down the stairs using his familiarity of the house and the guidance of his hand along the walls.

Martha had set out some tea and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich out for him, opposite her own mug of coffee and slice of toast.

He was momentarily knocked four years into the past, to a time when Martha would pick him up from school and they'd eat a snack together in the kitchen. She would talk to him in English, help him get a better grasp on the language.

He sat down at the table and took a bite of the sandwich, smiling at Martha as he did so.

"Gonna go through names of countries today? Learn the endings to some verbs?"

Martha laughed and looked at him for a long moment, her eyes soft and crinkled in a nostalgic smile.

"You still had short hair back then."

Lafayette groaned and touched his ponytail protectively, wincing at the memory. Not that short hair hadn't suited him, just that he'd never known what to do with it and... Well... His hairline had been _awful_.

Martha took a few sips of her coffee and watched Alexander slink through the doorway, his tail waving happily.

"My plan was to eat an early lunch," she motioned at her own plate, then at Lafayette's.

"Then we could collect some things Alexander might want while he's in hospital. He's going to be there for a while so I think we should try to stop him from getting bored."

Lafayette nodded, cursing under his breath as a large glob of jam dropped out of his sandwich and onto the floor. Alexander was at it in an instant, eating it up from the floor and miaowing contentedly, licking around his mouth with a self-satisfied purr.

Lafayette smiled and scratched Alexander's chin playfully, laughing as the cat batted his hand away with a tiny paw and flopped to the ground, rolling on his side and stretching.

Martha laughed and they both watched Alexander for a few moments. They were both cat people. Well, Martha definitely was. Lafayette maintained that he liked both dogs and cats equally.

They finished lunch and Lafayette washed up, smiling as Alexander brushed up against his leg.

"Do you mind grabbing some of Alex's things? Books, notebooks, whatever. Knowing him he'll want school work too."

Lafayette stiffened, his hands pausing halfway through washing his plate. He closed his eyes and nodded, trying to make his voice sound as collected and level as possible.

"Sure."

Martha didn't look around, she didn't seem to notice his odd behaviour.

He finished washing up and slowly walked down the hallway and up the stairs, forcing himself to keep his eyes open. He was going to have to sort through Alexander's room, he couldn't exactly do that with closed eyes.

He took a deep breath before stepping onto the landing. When he moved nearer towards Alexander's door he lowered his eyes, looking at his feet. It must have been an odd sight for someone to walk in on. Him stood there with his eyes lowered to the floor, tentatively moving closer and closer to a doorway on the landing.

He pushed open the door and looked up, taking in the neat piles of books, clothes and assorted objects around the room. A sort of horrible, sympathetic sadness gripped him. Even though Alexander thought he wouldn't be around to care, he'd wanted to make it easier for them to move his stuff out. Always trying not to make a nuisance of himself; typical Alexander.

He moved to the desk and ran his finger along the spines of the books. There were some textbooks there, Politics, English and History being the ones that Lafayette picked up. He knew Alex enjoyed those subjects the most.

There was a battered copy of the fourth Harry Potter book on his desk too, which Lafayette decided to take as well. He'd seen Alexander reading it before and by the way the pages were worn and yellowed with use, the teenager enjoyed it.

Lafayette picked up a notebook as well, and a pen off the desk. Alexander would want to write as much as he could, as soon as he could. He'd have to do his best accommodate that need.

As he was carrying this pile of objects past the doorway, something on the ground caught his eye. It was a small piece of paper, or at least it looked like one. Lafayette sank to his knees and carefully placed the pile of objects on the carpet, picking up the piece of paper and turning it over.

It was a photograph of a woman. She was standing on a beach somewhere he didn't recognise, wind whipping her hair and her sundress fluttering silkily.

He squinted closer at the photo and examined her face, taking in the dark eyes and tanned skin, the way her jawline cut sharply across her slender neck.

This was all hauntingly familiar to Lafayette, these were Alexander's features but... on a woman. It had to be his mother. It couldn't be anyone else, unless he had a sister he hadn't told them about.

Lafayette placed the photo gently on top of the pile and picked everything up once more. Before he opened the door out into the hallway, he closed his eyes and used one hand to feel his way back to his room.

He packed everything into an old gym bag he'd found in the bottom of his wardrobe and brought it downstairs. Right now, every part of the upstairs floor had some unwanted, unfathomable memory attached to it.

Walking around it was like walking through a desert riddled with rattlesnake nests. He never knew if he was going to step on something that would bite him.

The next few hours passed slowly, so Lafayette had a lot of time to think as he sat on the living room couch.

They were bringing Alex things from home because they'd presumed he would get better enough to use them. But... what if he didn't?

There was a very real possibility he'd never read another volume of Voltaire or Sartre, head hung low over the pages and his finger skimming the words lightly.

A very real possibility that he'd never write another unnecessarily long essay, brutally attacking his latest object of outrage for politics class.

It was all too real a thought to Lafayette that Alexander might not get to drink coffee with him, John and Hercules again or watch a show on Netflix one late evening, curled around John's shape.

He wondered if Martha was thinking similar thoughts. He thought these ideas had probably crossed everyone's mind at some point in the last day or so. It was hard not to imagine all the things someone would leave behind if they were to [ ].

He still didn't want to think about that word.

Two o'clock came around and they looked up at each other, almost identical expressions of nervous anticipation in their drawn faces.

"I suppose we should leave, did you pack some things?"

Lafayette nodded and they started to get ready, pulling on their coats and slipping on their shoes in suffocating silence. Lafayette grabbed the gym bag he'd left in the porch and they got into the car. Martha hummed nervously as the drove further into the town's centre towards the emergency room.

George was sat on the same sofa they'd been on yesterday, his long legs stretched out in front of him on the floor, his feet crossed and his chin tucked into his chest.

He'd fallen asleep. His coat was still on him so he'd either been too cold to take it off or he hadn't meant to fall asleep in the first place. Lafayette thought it was most likely that the latter was true.

Martha woke George up gently, with a hand on his shoulder and a quiet word in his ear. He opened his eyes and blinked two or three times before straightening up and surveying Lafayette in front of him.

"It's two now, so we thought we'd come."

George nodded, silent and stoic as ever, and stood up. He brushed his coat off and briefly rolled his shoulders in small circles, his heavy brows furrowed.

"Let me speak to a nurse then."

They were led away from the main waiting room and through the hospital by an ER trainee. It wasn't a particularly long walk, the hospital wasn't a large one, but it was long enough to build the tension between the three of them significantly.

Eventually, they were shown into the children's wing of the hospital, and then down a corridor bearing a sign that read 'Childrens' psychiatric unit'.

Lafayette's hand had found Martha's and she gripped it tightly, steadying the trembling and rubbing her thumb gently along the back of his hand.

They stopped outside a door right at the end of the corridor and the ER trainee turned to them, looking down at his clipboard and reading furtively for a few seconds.

"What I have here says he's not conscious yet, and won't be for a time. From now on though, when you visit Mr. Hamilton, you'll be in this room here, rather than in the waiting room outside."

Martha nodded and the ER trainee paused for a second, pulling out a small card from his pocket. He peered at the card, then the combination lock on the door and put in a password.

He held the door open for them and Lafayette felt Martha give his hand another firm, comforting squeeze. They walked in, George standing to the side so he was no longer in front of Lafayette. Without his father's considerable height blocking his view, he could see the whole room.

It wasn't a very large room, just big enough to fit a bed, three hard looking, straight back chairs, a bedside table and Lafayette supposed, extra room for nurses or any other medical equipment necessary. There was a large window directly opposite from the door and white, autumnal light filtered through a patchy layer of clouds to create a cotton wool pattern of shadows on the floor.

In the bed, which was next to the window, lay Alexander.

He was asleep, well, unconscious. Was there a difference between those two states? Lafayette wasn't entirely sure, his knowledge of the English language rarely delved into such intricacies.

His hair was still tied up in its usual ponytail but it was far from neat. The baby hairs around his forehead were plastered to his skin with sweat and his face was partially obscured by a thin layer of dark, stray hairs. From what Lafayette could see of his face, he was pale and sickly looking. His lips were no longer blue but a very pale peach, matching the complexion of the rest of his face almost exactly.

From his nose a small tube connected to a machine by his bed. Lafayette thought it must have been an oxygen tank, for he remembered Martha mentioning something about that early this morning.

As well as this, he had a multitude of wires and tubes connected to various points along his body. What Lafayette guessed were EKG stickers on his chest and a thin tube ran from his forearm to an IV drip next to his bed.

He looked frail under the clean white bed covers. His shape under the blankets was small and only if Lafayette concentrated very hard, he could see the slight rising and falling of his chest.

On the top of the cabinet next to his bed were the clothes he'd been wearing when Lafayette had found him, but, strangely, neither his shoes nor belt. Lafayette didn't know why this detail bothered him so much. He guessed he didn't like the idea of Alexander's things being mistreated.

"Where are the rest of his things? He- he had..."

Lafayette's voice was small and his accent was strong again, halfway through his sentence he trailed off, losing confidence in himself.

A nurse had inched her way into the room behind him and Lafayette turned around, starting slightly. How long had she been there?

"The rest of his things are being kept in storage, you're welcome to take them home for him. Just, with suicide attempts, we can't let a patient have anything that could be used as a makeshift rope. A belt, shoelac-"

The nurse was cut off as Lafayette walked abruptly out the door, turning sharply and pushing himself across the threshold into the hallway. He stood there instead, away from Alexander and that nurse and everything that was reminding him of how much he'd failed his brother.

Lafayette leaned his head against the cold wall of the hospital wing and closed his eyes. He didn't want anyone near him right now. Not Martha, George or that insensitive, horrible nurse.

He could hear voices inside the room but could only pick out select words. He decided he'd stay there and calm down somewhat before going back into the room.

It took his maybe fifteen or twenty minutes to gather himself properly, in that time watching other teenagers and kids pass him by. Some looked like visitors with families and friends, some wore hospital gowns and were accompanied by nurses.

The nurse who he'd so abruptly walked out on left not long after he did. She walked straight past him down the corridor without so much as a glance and didn't look back, eventually turning the corridor about thirty feet away.

He rubbed his face with his hand and breathed deeply a few more times before walking back into the ward.

Martha and George sat on the chairs by the wall and looked up as he entered. He shut the door behind him and sat between his patents, resting his head against George's arm and taking Martha's hand once again.

"I'm so sorry Gil. This should- this should never have happened."

George's voice was soft and low, unusually for him, he stumbled slightly over his words and seemed quite overcome.

"Don't be sorry. We'll... We'll be okay."

Martha had taken to rubbing circles onto the back of his hand again with her thumb and he gripped tighter, watching a particularly strong gust of wind blow a leaf from a tree far below.

So they sat there, not talking, just thinking. If you could have listened to their thoughts in that room that day, you'd just hear a frantic, dizzying buzz of emotions. Not one of them knew what was going to happen next, neither did they know what was happening right then. When those kinds of things hit, you never do.


	29. Chapter 29

**Hello! Announcement! Basically, I'm writing historical Hamilton fanfiction, look out for those, one will be out soon enough.**

 **Anyway, I hope you guys have seen** **my short story 'Doubts'** **about Charles Lee and George Frederick. Go to my profile and read it if you haven't. It's important to the series so you should read it, otherwise my characterisation of George in future chapters will seem wrong to you.**

 **Oh, also, I wrote a short story for John Laurens' birthday that I'm actually really proud of. I like it a lot and I put quite a bit if work in, so if you feel like reading it, give it a try. It's complete fluff, very cute and sweet.**

 **Guest: it just got good? Wow, thanks. You're right though lol.**

 **Can't wait: well, here you go! New, long ass chapter.**

 **Guest: lol, everyone like that line a lot. I guess it's kinda funny. Totally, d'accord! Yeah, it's one hundred percent a winter's ball reference. I was thinking about calling the cat something shorter than Alexander like 'lex' or 'xander' but I thought it might be funny to have everyone calling for Alexander and the cat coming along, or vice versa.**

 **Trigger warnings: hospitals, mention of recreational drugs, mention of self harm, suicide, mention of homophobia, mention of abuse.**

John slid his leather jacket over his shoulders and toed on his shoes, aware Hercules was watching him silently from the kitchen doorway, his expression no doubt disapproving and conflicted.

It was Tuesday afternoon, three days since Alexander had taken an overdose. John hadn't seen him for at least four days, possibly longer.

It felt like years.

Lafayette had been to see him in the hospital yesterday, he'd called to tell John. The situation had sounded less dire, more just miserably bleak.

John and Hercules weren't immediate family, so they hadn't been put on the visitor list yet. Though, Martha had assured him, when Alexander woke up this would change.

"Are you sure you want to go in? You don't have to. Mom called the school, they said Mrs. Wa- Martha rang."

John shook his head and picked up his art folder, where he left it leant against the wall. It was full to the point where the sides were slightly curved outwards, the handle was well worn and the corners of the folder itself were battered.

"I'm only going in for art. They'll understand, honestly. Mr. Sima is cool, he'll get it. Plus, I have important work due in today. If I miss handing it in they'll take longer to grade it, I want it back quickly."

Hercules frowned and folded his arms. Privately, he thought John was in absolutely no state to be going into school. He was dishevelled looking, his skin ashy and his eyes red-rimmed and underlined with dark shadows.

He would say this, but he'd gained quite a reputation for being the mom friend. He'd only be laughed at, and he wouldn't be able to stop John anyway.

John pulled him into a quick hug and squeezed his shoulder gently, smiling at him slightly, it was hardly even a quick upper twist of his lips, with no teeth and none of the usual light in his eyes.

"I'll see you soon."

John opened the door and retreated down the driveway with a small wave to Hercules.

The leaves on the trees were various shades of red and yellow now, flying around him frantically in the strong wind. The houses around him all glowed warmly from the windows, ambient golden light suffusing onto the sidewalk.

It was a biting cold Autumn and he could feel the tips of his fingers starting to tingle and go numb.

He pulled his jacket tighter around his frame and lowered his head against the harsh wind, feeling it whip his hair behind him in dark tendrils. He turned up his collar for added protection and pressed ahead.

John boarded a bus in the direction of the school, pulling up the hood of his jumper he'd put on underneath the leather jacket and sitting at the very back of the bus, putting his earphones in.

John spent the fifteen minute bus ride listening to the same song over and over again, not realising that his music was on repeat. He only registered this when he looked out the window and saw his stop a hundred feet or so ahead.

He walked into school through the throngs of students that had just been let out for lunch. He'd missed the first four classes, art being his fifth. It was around ten minutes until the bell went, then he would have art.

He didn't really want to be here, to be completely honest. Art was his favourite subject, along with biology, yet he didn't want to have to sit in a classroom for an hour and take notes, watch the board and listen to the teacher.

Yet, with Christmas exams approaching and the sheer amount of work expected of him and his classmates, it was imperative that he show up to the classes most important to him.

As he walked through the courtyard he caught sight of George Frederick sitting alone in the spot he normally frequented with Lee, sometimes Seabury too. He was on his phone, scrolling lethargically.

As John passed, he looked up. Strangely, there was no mocking grin or trace of animosity on his face. He merely looked tired. He also had a long cut across his left cheekbone that John knew he wasn't responsible for. He'd scratched up his face a bit, but no nail could make that kind of incision.

John moved into the stairwell without a word to him, his mind turning over these strange details. He made a mental note to mention them to Hercules and Lafayette.

He made his way to the art classrooms and walked in just as the bell went. Mr. Sima was sat at his desk, grading what looked to be a stack of theory exams.

He looked up when John walked to his desk, his face was surprised and he tilted his head slightly.

"I just got an email from the office saying you would be in today."

John shrugged and grinned sheepishly.

"We had work due. I just came in any way, couldn't be bothered to go to any other classes."

Mr. Sima clicked his tongue in a mock telling-off and grinned. He was a relatively young teacher, having only joined last year. John had taken an instant liking to him, he was funny, endeavoured to help his students enjoy art and never criticised anyone's work without complimenting them on at least one aspect of it.

"You shouldn't be telling me this, but I'm flattered."

John grinned and moved towards his desk. The classroom was still empty and it would probably be a few minutes until anyone else arrived.

"Is everything all right at home? You look- You look quite tired."

John looked down at his desk and shrugged, feeling suddenly awkward and small in his seat.

"It's- it's not something I'd really like to talk about."

He was silent for a few moments and John looked up again, running a hand absentmindedly through his hair.

"That's okay."

Mr. Sima looked away awkwardly, shuffling the papers on his desk and taking a sip from the cup next to his arm. He wrinkled his nose and spat back into the mug, shaking his head in disgust.

"Paint water. I finished my coffee an hour ago."

John laughed, glad at the sudden change of subject. He'd made the same mistake many times before, not that coffee remotely looked like dirty paint water, just that he tended to get absorbed in his work.

He thought that if Alexander were an artist it was exactly the kind of thing he would do.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, his stomach churning at the thought of his friend. His friend, who was now in hospital; who'd taken a bunch of pills with the aim of not waking up.

Not for the first time in the last few days, a sense of boiling, seething rage overwhelmed him. He hated that he was angry at Alexander, but that couldn't change the thoughts that made his face hot and his fists clench.

Had he not been enough for Alex? Had Alex even thought about what this would do to him? To Lafayette, to Martha, to George, to Hercules?

He hasn't even left a fucking note. He hadn't even called John, or spoken to him, or said goodbye. He'd just taken those pills one night, stumbled downstairs and chugged some scotch. Had he even considered what would happen next?

Had he considered that someone would have to be the person to discover him, that Lafayette might be that someone?

Had he even thought of _him_?

John was brought back to reality with the sound of the classroom door opening. He jumped and looked up, gazing over to where students were flooding in. All laughing, chatting and making jokes.

It was like he existed in a bubble that none of them could penetrate. It was as though he heard their voices like he was underwater. He felt so removed from them all, even more than he had been in the past few weeks with everything that was happening at home.

It was as though everything around him was the background noise in a dream, so forgettable that you don't even notice it at the time.

He pulled his art things from his folder and something inside his sketchbook slipped out from between its pages and drifted to the floor. He sighed and bent down to pick it up, turning it over in his hands.

It was a drawing of Alexander.

Not the one he had done in the coffee shop, no. It was when they had just met. Within the first two or so weeks of Alexander coming to Virginia.

In the drawing, he was sat on the on the Washingtons' sofa, next to Lafayette. They were laughing about something, though John couldn't remember what. He didn't even remember if he'd drawn from a reference photo or had just remembered the scene so clearly that he hadn't needed one.

He folded the work back into his sketchbook and slid it away from him, focusing instead on the front of the classroom where Mr. Sima was just beginning the lesson.

oo

The office was quiet and tastefully lit, soft orange lamps placed thoughtfully around the room on polished wood sideboards and mahogany tables. There was a desk against the far wall, right in the eye line of anyone to walk into the office.

Framed photographs hung on the burgundy painted walls. In one, a tall, dark-haired man shook hands with Jeff Sessions, the Attorney General. In another was a family, all dark-haired and pale with high cheekbones and clear, blue eyes. Each one of them looked proud but slightly stiff and unconcerned.

It was almost like a Victorian family portrait, the father holding his wife's shoulder with an iron grip and a look of stern discipline.

It was not difficult to guess, upon walking into this room, that the occupant was rich, affluent and possibly a narcissist.

You know that statistic they tell you; one in five CEOs are psychopaths? Merely walking into the office or speaking a few short words to John Lee might have you wondering whether this statistic applied to politicians too.

John Lee himself sat at the aforementioned desk, his red tie knotted in a half-Windsor and his shirt collar ironed so crisply, it looked 2D.

His hands hovered over the laptop keyboard, posed to begin typing. The phone rang and he sighed angrily, picking up the receiver and sitting back on his chair with his mouth set in a grim line.

"What?"

He didn't bother with pleasantries or introductions. There was a small list of numbers his Secretary could let through without asking him first, and no one on that list would really give a shit if he spoke to them like that.

It was his campaign manager, he sounded ever so slightly stressed but there was a definite note of glee in his tone.

"George Washington's allegedly taken a break from the campaign."

Lee sat up straighter in his chair, not exactly sure he had heard correctly.

"Where did you hear this?"

His campaign manager was speaking quickly now and Lee could hear the sounds of a keyboard clicking in the background. He was evidently typing something, and at a furious pace.

"A contact in his office. Apparently, he hasn't been in to work in three days or so and is citing family issues. It looks good. I'm trying to find out as much as I can."

Lee closed his eyes for a moment and allowed himself to relish in the victory for a second before replying.

"What's the family issue? Is it anything we can use?"

There was a noncommittal grunt from his campaign manager's throat and Lee rolled his eyes.

"I'm not sure. I'm looking into it, in case it's something that could benefit us. If not, it's still good to know what this is about."

Lee sighed and clasped his hands together behind his head.

"So how long can he take off before him coming back would be pointless?"

His campaign manager hummed thoughtfully and the typing stopped momentarily.

"I don't know, the Democrats won't be too happy if he's off longer than a week. This probably won't affect much, we can only hope whatever's happened is big enough to make him drop the campaign."

Lee laughed and twirled a pen between two fingers, his face spread into a wide grin.

"And if not, he's out of our way for the time being."

His campaign manager made a humoured noise of agreement.

"Listen, I'm going to get on this. I'll call you back."

"Don't call me until you have something. I need to get on this speech."

"Okay, oh and Lee?"

"What?"

"Let's hope this shit is good, we could beat him with good enough dirt."

"Well, let's hope you can do your job."

He hung up.

oo

George didn't even want to check his phone. He knew what he'd find. Missed call after missed call, email after email. He knew logically, at the risk of sounding a little presumptuous, that this would all be worth it when he became Senator, the first black Senator of Virginia at that. But still...

Sometimes, he forgot this. Sometimes he couldn't see why he putting himself, _his family_ , through this.

He was at home, listening to the recording someone had made of a meeting for him. Taking notes, jotting down ideas and rolling his eyes at some of Knox's idiotic comments.

There were few benefits to listening to the recording of a meeting rather than being there, but one of them was that he could scoff or roll his eyes at what people said without fearing repercussion. To be totally honest, he did this anyway, but not nearly as much as he would have liked to.

Another positive of listening to pre-recorded meetings was that he could stay in pyjamas, but that was besides the point.

Martha had gone to buy groceries. They had both taken temporary leave from their work for obvious reasons. If something happened to Alexander they had to be able to be there at a moment's notice. Work tended to stand in the way of that.

Lafayette had gone on a walk, said he needed some time alone to think. George was worried about him. Lafayette had, after all, been the one to find Alexander.

According to Martha, after John, Hercules and Lafayette had come home from school on the day of their fight with Lee and Frederick, Lafayette and Alexander had argued.

He always looked upset nowadays, miserable. Obviously, this was to expected. He and Alexander had grown extremely close in the time they'd known each other, so much so that one might assume they'd grown up together, rather than the reality; that they'd only known each other for about three months.

The boy was distant now though, lapsing back into French almost every time he spoke to them. Even when he was speaking English, his accent was strong and his words hesitant and jumbled. George only hoped that Lafayette would recover along with Alexander.

He hoped Alexander would be the only one in need of therapy after this was all over.

oo

"How did I not know you had a brother?"

James shrugged and twisted his hands together uncomfortably. He was sat on his bed in his dorm, squished between an old, creaking wooden desk and a wall. Student accommodation was ever so luxurious.

"How old is he, you said he was younger didn't you?"

Cyril, his roommate and friend for nearly a year now, sat on the desk next to him. He was surveying James, looking as though his entire reality had been brought into question. He could be a little dramatic sometimes.

"He's nearly sixteen."

Cyril frowned and re-crossed his legs, looking pensively at the Oasis poster he'd pinned up _ironically, duh._

"How come he didn't move here with you?"

James sighed and twitched his shoulders in a slight shrug. This was a chapter of his life he didn't exactly enjoy talking about.

"Mum and dad could only take in one child, not too much money coming in those days. Anyway, it's hard enough to get a visa for one person. Two is near impossible."

Cyril pouted thoughtfully and shook some hair out of his eyes.

"What's he like?"

James smiled slightly and looked at his nails, remembering Nevis and his mother and Alexander as clearly as though it had been yesterday.

"He's a fucking shy kid unless you know him. Then he _never_ shuts up. Crazy smart too."

Cyril laughed and they made eye contact. James knew he'd be able to see the pain in his face but found he didn't mind so much. He trusted Cyril, he was a good friend.

"Do you have any photos of him? Does he look much like you?"

James moved to the shelves on the other side of the room. He pulled a box from the very top and opened it, rummaging through the contents. He pushed aside old cinema tickets and school dance photos until he found what he was looking for.

He held out the photo to Cyril, letting him take it in his hands and examine it carefully.

"He sent it to me maybe a year ago, when he was living in New York. There was this foster mum he moved in with, Katherine. Alex really liked her. We talked loads in the months he stayed with her."

The photo was of a tanned teenager, roughly aged fourteen with long, windswept hair and a sheepish grin. He strongly resembled James, with his sharp, defined features and dark hair and eyes.

He was a skinny kid, Cyril noted, but his smile was definitely genuine and he looked like a nice guy.

In the background of the photo were tall trees and shrubbery blooming with flowers. Alexander had written _central park_ across the back of the photo in sharpie.

"He looks like you, but with long hair."

James smiled at Cyril, feeling that the alternative would be him crying.

"I'm really sorry James."

He looked away, eyes fixing on that stupid Oasis poster.

"You said he was living in Virginia?"

"Yeah, Newport news. It's a city, but they live in a more rural area. I've been googling the family a bit."

Cyril raised his eyebrows, shifting on the desk a centimetre or so.

"Anything interesting?"

James nodded and scratched his head, pulling out his phone.

"George and Martha Washington. George Washington is running for the US Senate this year."

Cyril whistled in awe and James held his phone out to his friend, showing him a photo of his brother's foster father.

"And the mum?"

James shrugged and turned off his phone, pocketing it.

"Couldn't find too much on her. She seems nice though."

"When did she call you?"

James tucked his legs into his chest and rested his chin atop his kneecaps.

"Sunday. She texted me on Monday to say that things seemed hopeful and I could probably FaceTime on Wednesday or Thursday."

Cyril moved off the desk to sit next to his friend, putting one hand on his shoulder gently in an attempt at comfort.

"Did you ever think he'd do something like that? I mean... uh- sorry, that came out wrong."

James sighed and scrubbed at his eyes with his palms.

"It's not the first time he's- I mean, nearly two years ago when he lived in a boys' home, he took some sleeping pills one night. It was enough to do some harm, but he was okay. This time feels different though. He took more... seemed more set on it."

Cyril bit his lip and watched James, patting him gently on the back.

"What was he like as a kid?"

James shrugged and toyed with the string on his hoodie.

"He was always an anxious kinda kid. He'd get scared of things like loud noises or people yelling. He was terrified of our dad in the last year or so before he walked out. Because dad would just yell all the time at mum, at us."

Cyril could sense his friend didn't want to talk about this anymore so he remained quiet as they sat there, only moving ten minutes later for a box of tissues when James' eyes began to water slightly.

"I haven't heard the sound of his voice in three years, and that could have just been it. You know? I could have just never seen him again."

"But you will, soon."

James nodded and wiped his eyes hurriedly before any tears had time to fall.

"Yeah, yeah. I will."

oo

There were sounds first, a high pitch frequency ringing in his ears, the kind you only notice in silence so oppressive your brain searches for something to fill the space.

Next was the feeling of blood pumping in his ears, he could hear it and feel it, hot and alive and frantic. Then colours as he opened his eyes. Blurred greys and nebulous blues that followed his vision and didn't stay in one place.

He could hear something that resembled beeping in the background, sharp and metallic and piercing. It was slowly speeding up and he could feel himself began to panic, his entire body seizing up with the anxiety now flooding through him. The beeping in the background was even faster now, more irregular and frantic.

He blinked a few times, trying to make sense of the clouds of faint colour surrounding him. He didn't know where he was, he didn't know what had happened...

He could hear voices in the corridor outside and suddenly there were people in the room next to him. He groaned and tried to move away from the sound and the lights, pressing his palms firmly down against his eyes and trying to focus on anything other than the horrible, throbbing pain in his head.

He could sense people around him, hear them too. Everything was far too loud and so, so bright, it burned his eyes.

He tried to move onto his stomach, press his face into the pillow and drown out everything around him, but he could feel the uncomfortable press of wires on his chest, on his forearm and at his nose too.

He instead brought up his hands and clutched his head tightly, blocking out any sounds and curling into a tight ball.

He could feel someone's hand on his shoulder and instinctively shifted away from the touch, still bewildered as to where he was and what was happening.

The voices around him had quietened but he could still feel the presence of people.

"Kid?"

A voice rang through the dim and bewildered haze around him and he stiffened slightly, trying to match a face or a name to the person speaking.

He couldn't- he didn't know wherever he was, who was with him or what had happened. He remembered taking some pills and then going downstairs, but after that everything was cast in a kind of shadow that his memory couldn't seem to penetrate.

He turned slowly so he was facing the direction in which the voice had spoken and unfurled himself cautiously, lifting his head and opening his eyes.

At first, his vision consisted entirely of blurry colours and the brief suggestion of daylight from somewhere to his left. Then, colours became clearer shapes. The shapes of people, clad all in blue. At least four of them surrounding him, leaning over where he was lying.

It came to him then, that he must be in hospital. Nowhere else would be as white and bleached looking with that unmistakable smell of chemical cleanliness.

So it hadn't worked then. He was alive.

He blinked a few more times and scanned his eyes across the faces in front of him. Nurses, he supposed. He could almost see properly now, everything was still fuzzy around the edges but details no longer lingered in ambiguity.

"I'm going to get Doc, someone call his parents."

One of the nurses jogged out of the room and disappeared out the door, closely followed by another man. This left only two people next to him.

"How do you feel?"

One of the remaining nurses crouched down next to his bed and smiled gently, she had dark ochre skin and a bright blue hijab to match the blue scrubs the other nurses wore.

He didn't answer, only pulled his arm out from under the blanket and examined where a tube lead into the vein there.

"IV drip, Cyproheptadine. Don't worry about it."

She smiled warmly and Alexander reached a hand to tap the sticker type things at his chest.

"They measure your heart rate, you won't need them soon."

He looked around the room and squinted slightly, trying to obtain a clearer understanding of his surroundings.

"Wha-" he coughed, his throat burned, "what happened?"

His voice was hoarse and he winced as he spoke, feeling as though his throat was being set on fire with the movement of the muscles there.

"Three days ago now, your dad and brother brought you in. You took some pills, didn't you?"

Her face was still kind, but it had lost its cheerfulness, now she merely looked concerned.

He closed his eyes and nodded, remembering his shaking hands and a sharp pain in his throat as he swallowed the pills. He thought back to how his hands had clutched the carpet desperately and the needles of white-hot pain in his head.

Her hand reached out and rested gently on his shoulder as he opened his eyes, watching her cautiously.

"It's okay, you're parents will be here soon. Your brother too, I've met him."

Alexander sat up a little straighter and tensed under her hand on his shoulder, feeling his breathing quicken at the thought of Lafayette.

"W-was he- when you met him- was h-he okay?"

The nurse bit her lip and Alexander fought the urge to hide his face under the bed covers. He wasn't a child.

"It will be good for him to see you, I think."

He said nothing, instead burrowing further into the covers and pulling the blankets tighter around himself.

"What- h-happened after I- I..."

He didn't finish the sentence, trailing off and letting her mind fill in the blanks.

"Well, you came here three days ago. You had a seizure almost a soon as you got here, because of the amount of serotonin in the Prozac you took."

He clenched his fists hard around the sheets and looked at her with wide eyes as she continued speaking.

"You had to have your stomach pumped, which only half worked. You had another seizure on Sunday night, now you have this IV drip of Cyproheptadine - that's basically just a serotonin 'antidote', if you will. You'll be okay, you're reacting well to treatment."

She winced slightly at her last words, obviously realizing that 'being okay' was the last thing that he wanted, that because this was the opposite of his endeavour, he was here.

Well shit, he'd managed to do some actual serious damage but not even been successful in killing himself.

He said nothing, however, just picked at a hangnail absentmindedly. Alexander looked at his bedside table and frowned, taking in the stacks of books there. They were from his room at the Washingtons' house. Some were school books, one was a notebook and one was his copy of _T_ _he Goblet Of Fire._

"Lafayette brought those the other day, he was here with your parents."

"Foster parents."

She grinned sheepishly and nodded as the second nurse began walking around him, adjusting the drip and the other wires and tubes around him. He reached a hand up to his nose and touched the little oxygen cannula there, frowning.

"Why- why do I h-have this?"

The second nurse, a man, adjusted it slightly at his nose and went back to fumbling around with the machines around them.

"Just to make sure you're breathing okay, you won't need it soon."

He fell silent then, looking out the large window to his left, while the nurse was on right. It was a grey kind of day, with patches of clouds layered on top each other until he couldn't even tell where the sun was. What time was it? Where was he?

"How do you feel?"

He looked back at the nurse next to him and shrugged.

"My head hurts. E-everything's really b-bright."

She looked at the nurse still adjusting the machines by his bed, who pointed towards the window and inclined his head.

"You can draw the blinds."

She got up from where she'd crouched down next to him and pulled at the blinds so that the room was instantly darker. He blinked a few times and adjusted his eyes to the change in lighting, already feeling his head hurt a little less.

"Do you hurt anywhere else? Any troubles seeing or hearing?"

He lifted a trembling hand to his throat and touched it gently, shrugging sheepishly as he did so.

"My throat... B-but I can see fine... Hear too."

She nodded and smiled, straightening up and taking a step back.

"I can get you some water if you'd like?"

"Okay... Thank you."

She was only gone for about a minute, coming back with a plastic cup of water in one hand and what Alexander thought was a granola bar, or something similar, in the other.

She handed him the water and he sipped at it slowly, feeling it soothe his scratchy, burning throat. She put the granola bar on the bedside table, next to his history textbook.

"Your foster parents have been called, I'm sure they're on their way now."

He nodded and put the cup on his bedside table, half finished. He was saving the rest for later.

Alexander closed his eyes and turned onto his side, facing the wall and the window rather than the nurse.

It hadn't worked.

He was still here.

He felt his chest tighten and his stomach churn with so many feelings he couldn't pick out any lone one of them.

He wondered who had found him. He wondered if James knew. How had John reacted? George? The two people who he had thought hated him, who probably detested him even more because of this.

Would he be moved on to another foster home? It was likely. When he'd tried to kill himself in that boys' home two years ago they'd wanted him gone instantly, he'd moved from a grey suburb of upstate New York to the city; to families who had been actively abuse, rather than passively so.

He clutched at the sheets harder and bit down hard on his lip to avoid crying audibly, he didn't want the nurse hearing him.

He couldn't believe it hadn't worked, he'd done everything he could to make sure his body would just give up.

When he had not slept and starved himself for days on end he hadn't been consciously suicidal, but part of him, he thought, had hoped his body would just cave.

He had thought his already poor state of health coupled with the pills and the alcohol would do it. Evidently, it had not.

He couldn't even _kill himself_ right.

Now he had to face the consequences of his foster family, his friends, the people in his school (if they knew) and of his brother.

This was exactly why he'd done it in the first place. He couldn't cope with all of it any longer, the people in his life that made him feel shit, the people that made him feel alive, and the people that did both.

He had just wanted to leave it all.

He heard the nurse by his bed stand up and her footsteps moved across the room to the door. The second nurse seemed to have finished adjusting the things around his bed and he touched Alexander's shoulder lightly, making him jump.

"Do you need anything, kiddo?"

He didn't turn around because he didn't want the nurse to see the redness of his eyes or the tears wet on his cheeks.

"No, thank you."

oo

John pressed the tip of his paintbrush more firmly into the watercolour and picked up as much pigment as he could, mixing the water further into the paint as he did so.

The classroom was quiet and he relished in the peacefulness and escapism of art, how he could only think of his grip on the paintbrush and how each stroke on the paper would turn out.

There was a knock on the classroom door and he looked up with the rest of the class, watching students put their brushes back into pots of water or else balance them on top of their palettes.

"Come in."

Mr. Sima sipped his coffee, yes coffee this time, as the door opened to reveal one of the office staff. An administrator who worked at the front desk some days.

"Uh, is John Laurens in this class?"

He tensed slightly and made eye contact with his teacher, slowly standing up out of his chair.

"Your brother is here to pick you up."

Pick him up? For wha-

Oh, _oh._

He scrambled to gather his things together and threw his pencil case and sketchbook into his bag. He stumbled towards the front of his class, feeling the eyes of his classmates on him, and placed his homework hurriedly on Mr. Sima's desk.

As soon as he was outside the classroom he nodded at the administrator and sprinted down the corridor, then through the large set of double doors that led to the staircase.

He jumped down the last four or so steps and reached the office out of breath, clutching the handle of his art folder tightly.

He hoped Alex had woken up, _please_ say this was good news. _Please_ say nothing had happened.

 _Please._

He scribbled his name and the time hastily into the book on the desk and ran out into the parking lot of the school, scanning frantically for his brother's car.

He spotted it and ran over, jumping in next to Hercules, who was at in the back seat.

"What happened? Is he okay?"

Hercules nodded and his face spread into a smile.

"Martha called about five minutes ago to say he'd woken up, she, George and Laf were about to leave."

Hercules pulled John into a bone-crushing hug and they pulled out of where they'd parked.

Henry grinned back at the two of them and pressed harder on the accelerator so that they were moving down the road exactly at the speed limit.

"Dad's been asking about you."

John sighed and felt Hercules' grip tighten slightly, looking at his friend he saw that his face was set angrily, watching Henry with a stony expression. His friends hadn't always gotten on well with his dad and there had been a sharp downward curve in their liking for him recently.

"He's been asking if you're coming home when he's out, if you're doing okay. That kinda stuff."

John grit his teeth and looked out the window. He honestly loved his dad, he really did. It was difficult to sort through his emotions sometimes though, because he could be such an asshole sometimes. He wondered if his dad was sorry for what had happened.

"Does he know about what's happened with Alex?"

Henry shook his head but then glanced back at the two of them with a hesitant expression.

"He doesn't but I should, uh- I should mention, people have been talking a bit about it. There were loads of people in the emergency room apparently, around my age, someone must have recognized Mr. Washington. I've just heard people chatting, you know?"

John glanced at Hercules in alarm and saw his expression mirrored on his friend's face.

"How much do they know?"

Henry shrugged and they turned right past a gas station.

"I don't know. I heard someone say that 'the kid' looked like he was on Tsikuni. That's different though, I guess."

John bit down hard on his lip and looked out the window of the car, feeling his stomach boiling with rage. Hercules, however, looked confused.

"Tsikuni?"

John sighed and pushed some hair out of his face.

"Promethazine. It's like cough syrup mixed with soda, the shit lil' Wayne got hooked on."

Hercules groaned and rubbed the back of his head, his eyes closed.

"Just the reputation Alex needs, people thinking he's a fucking druggie."

Hercules hardly ever swore. It was a testament to his anger and frustration at the situation that he cursed so easily.

They drove the rest of the way in silence, the freeway was relatively quiet and there were no speed cameras, this was rural Virginia, so John thought they might have just tipped over the legal limit.

They pulled into the parking lot of the hospital and John jumped out before the car had even stopped, Hercules stepping down onto the asphalt a moment later.

"John, shall I pick you up or what?"

He didn't know how long this would take, if Lafayette would want them to sleep at his that night or if he would spend the night at the hospital.

"I'll text you."

They ran immediately through the double doors of the emergency room and towards the reception desk. There was no sign of Martha, George or Lafayette, who were presumably either already with Alex or somewhere else in the hospital.

Hercules cleared his throat and the woman at the desk looked up, pushing her glasses further up her nose.

"We're here to see a friend, Alexander Hamilton. We should be on his visitors list now."

The woman clicked on her computer a few times and typed some words on her keyboard before nodding her head and directing them towards the second set of doors.

"Three people came to see him just five minutes ago. Talk to Marian over there. She was supposed to bring you to him."

She pointed at a young, tanned nurse wearing a blue hijab over at the side of the room. They hastened towards her and upon seeing them, she jumped to her feet.

"Follow me, he woke up only about ten minutes ago. Your friend and his parents are here already."

She held open the door for them as they moved through the hospital, past different wings and rooms, through corridors with dim lighting and brightly painted children's units.

She showed them through a door bearing the plaque _'Children's psychiatric ward'_ and into a small, brightly lit office overflowing with filing cabinets and cupboards. Qualifications and certificates were framed on the walls and a few messily drawn kids' pictures were tacked up on a cork board behind the desk.

Martha, George, and Lafayette were sitting on chairs in front of a man wearing a white doctors' overcoat and dark, thickly framed glasses.

Lafayette smiled somewhat shakily at them as they sat down in two more chairs and he reached out to take Hercules hand the moment the teenager was close enough.

Hercules did not pull away, on the contrary, he shifted closer to his friend and from the way the skin over his knuckles was visibly pulled taught, he had squeezed Lafayette's hand reassuringly.

Martha smiled at John as he sat down and he noticed her and George's hands were also clutched tightly together, and that her husband's thumb was stroking soft circles into the back of her hand.

He ached for Alexander, he felt like the third wheel here. He hadn't held Alexander's hand in what felt like years, and he missed the way their fingers fit perfectly together.

"So, Alexander woke up this afternoon, quicker than we thought he would. He's obviously going to be in some distress so it's important you don't push him or ask him too many difficult questions about what's happened, yet."

He straightened his glasses and looked down at his sheet.

"He'll have to stay here for a few weeks yet, not only to recover from the overdose itself but to be monitored by psychiatrists and medical professionals."

John watched Hercules stroke the back of Lafayette's hand soothingly with his thumb.

"Really, I just felt it was important to tell you that he'll be okay, physically and that you need to be careful with him when you visit."

John bit his lip and took a deep breath, looking up at the doctor.

"How long will he be here?"

The doctor consulted his notes again and stroked his beard thoughtfully.

"Probably around two or three weeks as an inpatient but a few more as an outpatient, coming in regularly for check-ups."

George nodded at this information and the doctor smiled at them all, pushing the chain that secured his glasses around his neck further behind his ear.

"Just one more thing, normally we have visitation limits of three people at one time. Today, we'll make an exception due to the circumstance, but usually, we allow no more than three."

Everyone remained silent, not having much to say. No one really had any thoughts other than those of Alex, of seeing him as soon as possible.

"I can bring you to him now."

The nurse smiled at them from the doorway and almost instantaneously, everyone got to their feet with much clattering of chairs and fumbling.

They moved only a few doors down the corridor to the very last room, where Martha, George, and Lafayette had been but John and Hercules had yet to see.

The nurse showed them the combination code for the lock, _1/7/7/8_ in case they ever visited without the direction of a nurse or doctor.

John wished at that moment he had someone's hand to hold, clenching his fist tightly as the door was pushed open. Then, he felt Lafayette free hand slip into his, squeezing gently.

John almost closed his eyes when they entered the room but wasn't quite able to deny himself the sight of Alexander for which he had craved for so long.

It was not a particularly large room, so when they walked in Alexander was immediately apparent in the bed next to a large window. The blinds had been drawn so that the room was engulfed in a grey tinted shade. It was not dark exactly, only dim.

Alexander sat up in the bed, fiddling with the end of his bedsheet. He was pale and sickly looking, with pink, puffy under-eye bags, and colourless lips. He looked an entire world away from the golden-skinned, cheerful teenager John had sketched in the coffee shop earlier that month.

He seemed to shrink away from them as they entered the room, retreating into the covers that drowned his bony frame. His clothes were folded on the bedside table next to him and he appeared to be wearing a hospital gown. An oxygen cannula was connected to his nose and from his forearm and chest, numerous wires and tubes lead to various machines around him.

John felt ever so slightly weak at the knees and though that, perhaps, he would have stumbled if it were not for Lafayette's firm grip on his hand.

They all stood still, wordless, in the doorway for a moment before Lafayette had broken free of Hercules and John, rushing towards Alexander with a tirade of gasping French on his lips.

"Je m'inquiétais tellement pour toi, j'étais tellement inquiet! J'ai cru que tu allais mourir! Si seulement j'avais pu en faire plus pour toi, Alexandre. Je suis désolé, je suis vraiment désolé..."

 _I was so worried for you, I was so worried for you. I thought you would die, Alexandre, I wish I could have done more for you, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry._

Lafayette had thrown his arms around him, sobbing and speaking in French so garbled and fast, neither John nor Alexander could understand it.

Alexander stiffened at the sudden embrace but brought his hands gingerly out from under the covers to wrap around Lafayette, speaking to him in quiet French.

"Je suis là, Je ne te quitterai plus."

 _I'm here, I'm not leaving you again._

There were tears rolling down Alexander's face now and as John and Hercules stepped closer, they intensified into sobs. Lafayette wiped away his own tears and clutched at Alexander's hand tightly, as though trying to tether Alexander to him.

John stepped forward cautiously, as though in slow motion. He watched Alexander look up at him and saw the pain in his face and the tears shining on his cheeks.

He crouched down next to Lafayette and took Alexander's second hand, squeezing it tightly and embracing him with his free arm. He could feel Alexander's ragged breathing beneath him and felt tears of his own sting his eyes.

Alexander was speaking now, quietly, repeating the same words over and over again.

"I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry..."

Alexander seemed to just let go there, his whole body heaved and shuddered with the wracking motion of his sobs – the sheer _physicality_ shocked him, how he was crying with his entire body; he felt as though it would register on the Richter scale from the way he was quaking.

Hercules was vaguely aware that the nurse had left and the door closed behind her. He had maintained his grip on Lafayette's hand and was crouched next to him, his free arm hugging Alexander tightly.

Lafayette was shaking his head at Alexander's words, his grip becoming noticeably firmer on both Hercules' and Alex's hand.

"Non, c'est bon. Pas besoin de t'excuser. Don't apologise."

Alexander had lowered his head, hiding his expression with the many strands of dark hair that had fallen around his face. He was taking deep, shaky breaths and was clearly trying to calm himself.

The anger that John had been wallowing in, letting fester inside him, had died. He could not be angry at Alexander for this. He'd thought he was doing them a favour, he'd convinced himself that they'd been better off without him.

Alexander's problem wasn't that he hadn't thought enough about this; it was that he'd thought too much.

It took a few minutes for Alexander to calm down properly and at one point John had thought about trying to find a nurse, Alex just seemed so out of breath, so shaken.

He shook his hair out of his face, however, and closed his eyes, biting his lip and heaving deep breaths. He sat up slightly and smiled weakly at them, squeezing down on John and Lafayette's hand tightly.

"Hey..."

He looked around at them all, one dimple appearing deep in his cheek as he smiled slightly. John looked down at Alexander's hand to see he was digging his nail hard into the skin there; a bad habit. He pulled his friend's finger away clutched even tighter at his hand.

Lafayette gestured to the items on the bedside table and smiled, speaking in French again; trying to fill the awkward silence

"On t'a apporté des livres, tes manuels, et... J'ai trouvé cette photo dans ta chambre."

 _We brought you some books, your textbooks and... I found this photo in your room._

John turned to where George and Martha stood, preparing to translate. He gestured at the books and items on the bedside table then lazily flicked his hand back at where Alexander and Lafayette were talking. They seemed to understand.

Alexander broke his grip on Lafayette's hand to take the photo he was being offered. He gazed at it for a few moments before passing it to John, wiping his brow, which was glistening with sweat.

"Ma mere. My mom, before she had me."

He examined the photo carefully, marvelling at how familiar her face was. Alexander looked so much like her, same sharp jaw and defined nose. The slightly feminine features he'd always had now made sense, they were so clearly from his mother.

He handed it back to Alexander, watching him as he pulled the covers protectively back around himself, the photo of his mother still clutched in his hand.

George and Martha had moved forward now, Martha's eyes were shining slightly and George was stood slightly behind his wife, his jaw set firmly.

Martha crouched down next to Lafayette and embraced Alexander warmly, holding him with gentle arms and stroking his head softly. His arm gripped her shoulder tightly and as they hugged he whispered in her ear,

"Martha, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."

She shushed him and leaned back slightly to look at him, taking in his dark under-eye circles and pallor.

"Don't ever be sorry."

He smiled tentatively, wondering for what had to be the millionth time, why fate had deemed he deserved these people.

George moved closer now, biting the inside of his cheek. The last proper conversation he'd had with Alexander was when they'd both said things they regretted, horrible things.

Alexander's eyes fell on him and the teenager sighed, his eyebrows furrowing. He didn't look angry though, just concentrated.

"I'm sorry," he managed, making eye contact with George for the first time in days.

He shook his head and grasped Alex's hand.

"I know you didn't mean anything of it, I'm sorry too."

Lafayette looked from George to Alexander and then to Martha, confused.

"De quoi parlez-vous?"

 _What are you talking about?_

Alexander shook his head and glanced conspiratorially at Martha.

"Rien. Ce n'est pas important."

Lafayette frowned but said nothing, accepting the chair that Martha slid towards him and sitting down next to Alexander's bed.

"So- Can you tell me... What happened?" Asked Alexander, watching them nervously.

Lafayette lowered his head momentarily and Alexander saw his hand grip Hercules' tightly.

"I- Je t'ai trouvé... I woke up Sunday and heard something. I went outside to your bedroom and found you. Papa and me took with you to the ER."

Lafayette grimaced, though Alexander wasn't so sure if it was a reaction to the memory or embarrassment at his English. He reasoned that it was probably a combination of both.

He hadn't meant for it to work out like that. He had wanted to get into bed, have his bedroom door locked. Everything had just happened too fast, it had been all he could do to crawl at least halfway into his room.

"I'm sorry, I'm sor-"

His voice broke slightly and he rubbed his eyes, dragging his teeth across his lip.

"I didn't want it to go the way it did."

He looked down at his hands and John watched him, narrowing his eyes.

 _So how did you want it to go? You just dying, right?_

A very small, bitter part of John's brain supplied this but he said nothing, knowing that comment was irrational and cruel. He didn't agree with these thoughts, he only wished Alexander would be alright. That was all he cared about now.

Someone had found more chairs and everyone was sat down now, silent and pensive. Everything had changed between them, and it would be a miracle if they could all get through this unscathed.

Indeed, Alexander, John, and Lafayette had suffered enough in the past week- and this was only to be the beginning of a long ordeal. It was looking less likely that things could just go back to the way they'd been before.

 _ **Creds to ErmyPop, who helped with the french!**_


	30. Chapter 30

**Heya! Sorry that last update took me a while, things are hectic right now. I've been a bit ill.**

 **AlmaSwat: sorry I made you cry... thanks though, I guess. Those other two fanfiction s were just fun to write, especially the lams one. I actually enjoy historical writing much more than modern settings, but this particular story seems to have taken off so it's the one I focus most on.**

 **Guest: haha, I guess you could read it like that. Well, I have to say I disagree. As someone who is currently in therapy, I find it really, really helpful. Obviously, different things work for different people, you can have treatment resistant conditions, but no one can really judge how someone will best improve. Besides, I know these characters, Alex could benefit so freaking much from being allowed to speak his mind and just... let go, I guess. On another note, are you lecturing Alex on his methods of self harm lol? He's not in a great state of mind right now.**

 **Anyway, on with it I guess.**

 **When I first wrote this I swore so much in it, I had to go back and take some of it out. It went a little overboard.**

 **Yo, I may have slightly misused the word asceticism a while back, because Alexander isn't a fuck boy turned monk. Imma just roll with it though.**

 **Trigger warnings: Mention of self harm, suicide, mentions of homophobia, mentions of abuse, hospitals.**

John pushed a few dimes into the coin slot of the vending machine and watched as the bottle of water was pushed further and further towards the edge of the shelf until it clattered to the opening at the bottom.

He twisted open the cap on the bottle, hearing the plastic snap, and took a long drink, leaning against the cold, black metal of the machine beside him.

The waiting room was almost empty, save an off-duty nurse sat behind the desk a few metres away from the door they'd come through earlier. The parking lot outside was dark, lit only dimly by a lone street lamp and the red neon sign above the door, urgently screaming the words _accident and emergency_.

He walked through the automatic doors and stepped out into the frigid nighttime. He remembered loving automatic doors as a kid, he'd run up to them and watch them open, only to dart back and laugh as they closed again. A stupid game of cat and mouse his dad would always chastise him for playing.

The night was cold and John could see his breath curling upwards as steam when he exhaled, catching the red light so it looked like blood diffusing into water.

He sat on the wall of the lot and watched the cars rumble by, reduced to blurs of red rear lights and blazing headlamps. He pulled out his phone and opened his messages, tapping into his dad's contact.

He didn't call him, of course, but scrolled through their text messages. John hadn't sent one to him in just about a week, but to his surprise, his dad had texted him more than once since he'd left.

The first one was from the evening of their argument, his dad had texted him asking if he was coming home or not and whether he was ready to apologise for what he'd said. John rolled his eyes at this and scrolled to the next message, frowning slightly. The texts became less sternly disapproving thereafter, however.

His dad had been asking him where he was staying all week. He'd messaged John inquiring whether he was coming home while he was at work and if he was at Lafayette's house or not.

The most recent texts were from this morning. There were two of them, they were short and simple but came like a punch in the gut to John.

 _Dad (8:55 am today): Please just come home, John._

 _Dad (9:03 am today): It's been over a week. I need to know you're staying somewhere safe._

John bit his lip and shifted slightly on the wall, running his fingertip repeatedly around the ridges on the mouth of his bottle of water.

He felt torn, ripped down the middle like an old newspaper. His sisters and brother were at home, Mary, Martha and James; every day he spent away from them felt like he was being ripped another inch apart.

Then, there was his dad. He couldn't live with that man anymore, not when he was so set in his beliefs and so determined John would have to bend to his will.

He texted back with shaking fingers, pressing send before he had time to think too much about his message.

 _John (just now): I'm safe._

He left it at that. He didn't want to give his dad the impression that he wasn't angry at him, or that he planned on coming home anytime soon. His dad hadn't even apologised yet, and no way in hell was John going to make that move first. He'd smashed a vase, his father had hit him; there was a significant difference in those two situations, he thought one required a little more leniency than the other.

He would be sixteen in thirteen days, legally allowed to work, drive too. He'd find a job at a coffee shop or some shit, earn some money and either pay Herc's family rent or find his own place. He was willing to make up with his dad if he apologised, but living with that man was like a ticking time bomb, he wasn't going to risk it exploding again, not when the fallout would affect his entire family too.

He wasn't exactly sure how legal it was for him to live alone when he was only sixteen, but he rationalized that it wouldn't be too difficult to find a landlord who would take money no matter whether it came from a teen or not.

His mom lived in South Carolina now, and he had briefly considered moving down there a few years ago, but his ties with Lafayette, Hercules and now Alexander, stopped him.

He pocketed his phone and looked back at the hospital behind him, up at the row of lights he thought belonged to Alexander's corridor. They'd been here for about an hour now and since their arrival, dark ink had spilt across the cloudy sky so that it was mottled and charcoal grey like a bruise.

John heaved a heavy sigh and turned wearily back towards the building, ignoring the nurse and walking straight back through the double doors and in the direction of Alexander's room.

The five of them had moved chairs to sit comfortably around Alexander's bed, George and Martha next to each other closest to the wall, Hercules and Laf side by side and John directly beside Alexander's pillow.

He raised his hand in greeting, walking cautiously into the room, making eye contact with Alexander as he did so. He wished for some time alone with him, he knew Alex did too. The way that they had both been staring at each other gave more than enough away, he was surprised no one else had caught on yet.

Perhaps they had, perhaps no one had deigned to mention it yet. Lafayette would probably tease him about him later.

He sat down again and smiled at Alex, fiddling with the hem of his sweater. The granola bar a nurse had apparently brought in for Alex over an hour ago sat half eaten on his bedside table. Martha had gently persuaded Alex to eat it, to which he had grudgingly conceded and taken a few bites.

Alexander, who had previously kept himself wrapped tight up in the bedcovers, pushed them aside a little and lifted his left arm up to adjust the oxygen cannula at his nose. A layer of bandage wrapped around his wrist and forearm, secured by some surgical tape. John frowned slightly, stomach churning and goosebumps rising on his arms.

He watched Alexander's arm, feeling a certain tightness in his chest, clenching and squeezing like a boa-constrictor

He had thought Alexander had only taken pills, but… had he done something more? No one had mentioned him doing anything like that, surely they would have said something if he had indeed slit his wrist?

Lafayette was chatting about something or other, his voice was doing that weird thing where it got increasingly faster in his eagerness until he realised the speed at which he was talking and slowed down. This was a habit he tended to fall into when he was nervous; when he needed to fill up silence with anything that made the situation less awkward.

John knew Lafayette was just as uncomfortable as he was, just that the French teenager tended to fill silence as often as he could, rather than John, who preferred to just sit in it.

He must have been staring because Alexander slowly, subtly, tucked his arm back underneath the covers. He looked at John nervously and then let his eyes flit back to Lafayette, his other hand moving surreptitiously to pull the covers further around him.

John looked around to where George and Martha sat, following George's gaze to see that it indeed was fixed on the spot Alex's arm had been a moment earlier.

"What time is it?"

Alexander spoke for the first time in a few minutes, strands of his hair were pushed haphazardly behind his ears and his cheeks were flushed. It was admittedly very warm in the room, John considered finding a nurse and asking to open a window. He could feel himself beginning to sweat.

"Nearly half five."

Alexander nodded and pulled the covers around himself even tighter, despite the warmth of the room and the heat on his face.

"Do you want the window open?"

Alex shook his head, eyeing Lafayette, whose arms were bare, only wearing a grey tank top.

"It will get cold."

John sighed, irritated that Alex would put Lafayette's own comfort over his own when he was the one ill in hospital. Lafayette could deal with being a bit chilly, he would want to for Alex. The French teen had evidently caught on and shook his head hastily, laughing awkwardly.

"C'est bon, je n'aurais pas froid. Il fait plutôt chaud ici, en plus, tu as l'air d'avoir chaud."

 _It's okay, I won't be cold. It's hot in here, besides, you look warm._

Alex shrugged nervously and George stood up, moving towards the door with a small smile.

"I'll ask a nurse if we can open the window. You do look warm, Alex."

John frowned, watching as George disappeared out into the hallway. Exactly how much French did George understand? It never seemed like he got much from what Lafayette, he or Alexander said.

Numbers, days of the week and simple phrases Lafayette used often were normally the extent of his understanding.

He came back a minute or so later with the same nurse that had brought them to the room just over an hour ago. Lafayette smiled at her as she walked in.

"On pourrait ouvrir la fenêtre? Il fait chaud, et Alex as l'air d'avoir chaud."

 _Can we open the window? It's hot, and Alex looks warm._

The nurse frowned slightly and John prepared to translate, wondering why Lafayette had attempted to speak French to this perfect stranger.

"C'est vrai? J'espère que il n'a pas de fièvre."

 _Really? I hope he doesn't have a fever._

She moved towards Alex and felt his forehead, ignoring the way the teenager flinched reflexively back when a hand was raised in front of him. She felt his forehead with the back of her and hand then used two fingers to feel his pulse underneath his jaw.

"It is warm in here… Do you feel hot or cold?"

Alexander shifted backwards ever so slightly away from the nurse.

"Just a bit warm."

She passed him the styrofoam cup of water and he obediently took a sip, watching her cautiously.

"You don't have a fever, maybe you have a migraine coming on, open the window for a little while, that might help. Does your head hurt?"

Alexander gave a tiny shrug and shifted uncomfortably. Lafayette looked ever so slightly alarmed and looked pointedly at John, who was in the easiest position to reach the window.

John moved hastily towards the window, bringing the blind upwards a little so he could push the window open.

John sat back down and Alex moved slightly to the right so that they were sat closer together. Alexander was only about ten or so inches from him now.

"Has… Has my social worker called?"

Alex fiddled awkwardly with the cannula tube across his bed that lead to his nose, not looking up at George and Martha.

Martha glanced at her husband and her eyebrows furrowed slightly, he shook his head almost infinitesimally and narrowed his eyes.

"No, was he supposed to?"

Alex shrugged and looked out the window, biting his lip and pushing himself downwards, further into the bedcovers.

"Aren't they supposed to kinda… know when this stuff happens?"

John looked from George to Martha, watching their expressions carefully. George looked as serious and pensive as usual, and Martha was focused ardently on her nails, examining a chip in the clear polish there

"Yes, we- uh, we'll be in touch with him, things have been busy."

Alexander seemed to tense slightly but said nothing, nodding quickly. He hugged his knees to his chest underneath the blankets and adjusted the cannula at his nose for what seemed like the one-hundredth time.

Lafayette turned his head and watched Martha and George, his eyes ever so slightly narrowed. John thought the two adults had answered the subject of the foster service quite strangely, but he was too tired to give it any proper thought.

He said nothing and thereafter the room fell into silence.

It had been awkward since they'd walked in. No one had said much about what had happened, almost completely avoiding the subject altogether.

The doctor had been firm in informing them not to ask difficult questions or distress Alex any further, but it was clear this was throwing the teenager off even further.

Alexander seemed quite bewildered as to why they were all trying to act normal, in the midst of how chaotic and crumbling everything was. John wished they could just address what had happened, rather than make stupid conversation about anything that popped into Lafayette's head.

He had thought he wanted to see Alex, and he had- he did- but not like this.

He would say he wanted to go home, but he didn't. Home was where his dad was, where Bibles and crucifixes and promises of hell resided. Home wasn't where he wanted to be. He didn't think he knew where home even was anymore.

He just wanted quiet and warmth and peace and Alexander.

It didn't look like he'd get that for a while, though it wasn't much to ask. It occurred to him then that he hadn't been alone with Alexander for over a week. Nine days, actually.

"What are the visiting hours here?"

He turned to George and Martha with this question, wondering when it would be acceptable to go back to Hercules' place and not appear rude. He didn't notice as Alex moved further into the corner, trying to remove himself from the lights and sounds, flinching slightly.

"It's half five now, I think we can be here until half six or so."

Then, however, it would have been difficult not to notice Alexander's visible flinch at those words. His eyes were half closed, squinting against the bright, fluorescent lights of the ward.

"You okay?"

He nodded quickly but stopped almost instantly, taking a sharp, audible breath. His cheeks were slightly pink and his face was screwed up in pain. Alex closed his eyes and Lafayette looked from George to Martha anxiously, bracing his hands on the arms of his chair and preparing to stand up.

"Alex?"

He looked up at John, his eyes darting from one face to another in repressed panic. Alexander flinched away again the noise and half closed his eyes against the bright lights.

"I'm alright, just- just a headache."

George stood up carefully, pushing his chair slowly behind him to make as little noise as possible.

John looked from him to Alex, frowning in concern and reaching a nervous hand out to grasp his friend's.

He still wasn't one hundred percent sure what was happening, though George seemed as though he knew. The nurse said Alex might have had a migraine coming on, which, John realised, made sense.

Henry, his older brother, got migraines occasionally. He always just shut himself up in his room with the lights off after yelling at the entire house to shut up. People who got migraines tended to get all sensitive to noise and light.

George came back a moment later with the nurse, perturbed and nervous looking. She immediately went to the light switch and turned it off, so that the room was suddenly cast in thick, hazy darkness.

Next to him, John saw Alexander's shoulders relax marginally, yet, through the dim, it was clear his face was still twisted in pain.

The nurse ushered them all out of the room, John felt Hercules grip his forearm and lead him towards the door.

The corridor was adversely bright, the vaguely off-white lights stung John's eyes as he blinked, disoriented and perplexed.

"Is Alex okay?"

John looked from George to Lafayette to Martha, then back at the door the nurse had closed behind her.

"A nurse mentioned he might get migraines, I think it's probably our cue to leave. We shouldn't have stayed so long, I think it stressed him out a little."

George rubbed a large hand over his face and sighed, turning and looking towards the door with a resigned, almost defeated face.

John winced slightly and glanced quickly at Herc, meeting his eye as they both wondered the same thing.

"Do you think Herc and I should hang around, or…"

Martha shook her head at this, though she wasn't looking at them. Her face was partially obscured at this angle by her dark curls, but her voice mirrored her husband's tired tone.

"I don't think we'll stay much longer either. We probably won't see Alexander again until tomorrow."

Lafayette's hand had released Hercules' now, for what John guessed was the first time since they'd arrived. He didn't miss the look Lafayette shot at their friend however, it was like a kind of predetermined pining, as though Lafayette was already anticipating missing Hercules.

The situation with Hercules and Lafayette was complicated, to say the least.

The history concerning the three of them and how they'd discovered their own queerness was almost funny if it hadn't, and continued to, impose so many problems on them.

Lafayette had first told John he thought he was gay in 6th grade. He'd spent a few months trying to figure himself out, the two boys had spent countless nights talking to each other in French about that sort of stuff on sleepovers. It was safer that way; no one could understand them.

Then, Lafayette had watched Buffy The Vampire Slayer for the first time, which they didn't really have in France, and immediately developed a crush on Willow, the later revealed to be lesbian witch. It had all been very confusing for a while until Lafayette had decided he didn't so much care about gender and was fine with letting whatever happened happen. By the time he was fourteen, he'd had it all figured out.

John had always envied him for this mentality. He had noticed something was 'wrong' when in seventh grade, boys were talking about kissing girls and going on dates with them. He'd felt no such attraction.

He'd grown up with the typical, fire and brimstone bible verses from his dad and the promises of hell if sins were committed. This had only ended up scaring him as a kid though, he'd never really felt the kind of warmth and comfort you were supposed to from religion. He'd only ever been terrified of God.

He'd become more accepting of gay people around age twelve, but never thought he'd turn out that way. He had to like girls. He had to.

Gradually, media and more open-minded friends had helped him become slightly better acquainted with his identity, and he and Lafayette had spent a comfortable, lazy year or so content to leave those kinds of things be, pretend didn't really exist.

Then came Hercules.

He'd always been in their year, always a quiet presence in the back of the lunch queue or across the field from where they'd sit at break. They'd been pretty close friends since fifth grade, but as they started to hang out more in middle school, Lafayette had developed an almost laughably adorable crush on the boy.

It had a been that way ever since. Back then, Hercules had never really shown any sort of persuasion towards boys or girls, steering away from that topic altogether. In their last year of middle school, Lafayette had developed an almost irritating habit of going on long rants in French detailing all the reasons why Hercules might be gay and why they would make a good couple.

It had all seemed futile, until the end of eighth grade. Hercules had casually remarked that he thought Leonardo Dicaprio was cute after they'd watched Romeo and Juliet in English class. Lafayette had not shut up for weeks afterwards.

So things had been a lot like that ever since. Hercules had never really come out and said he was gay or bi, or anything like that, but he'd dropped hints on occasion. No one but Lafayette and John knew this about him, he was quite sensitive about that sort of thing. Lafayette didn't blame him.

Being Black? Hard as hell, especially in America.

Queer? Just as hard.

But both? It felt a lot of the time like the whole world was stacked against you.

This wasn't to mention the fact that Lafayette was also Jewish, a part of his identity he didn't disclose often but nevertheless felt strongly tied to.

Lafayette had hesitantly come out to George and Martha about two months before he turned fifteen and had immediately been assured by them that this was okay and that they loved him as much as they had before. John had smiled and clapped Lafayette on the back at the time, but couldn't help feeling the anger pooling in the pit of his stomach expand and burn hotter and hotter.

It was all to do with John's dad. It had all started when he was fourteen and the Republicans of Virginia were holding a convention. Thus had begun the six-week long argument with his father about whether or not John would attend.

The culmination of this had been the week before the convention, resulting in an angered, bitter John practically screaming at his dad that he was '" going to fucking hell no matter what I do, so why should I even listen to you anyway?"'

That had been a mistake.

Things hadn't changed much since, yet John fancied Hercules and Lafayette were getting closer. He was just waiting for the metaphorical dam of repressed feelings to break and a situation similar to the 'Alex-John' makeout fiasco to occur.

George spoke then, snapping John from his reminiscings.

"Do you need a ride home? It's dark out."

Hercules shook his head silently, hands stuffed in his jeans pockets.

"Hugh or Henry will pick us up. We'll get home fine."

George smiled slightly and nodded, wrapping an arm around Martha's shoulder and pulling her close.

"Okay, get home safe. We'll call you if anything changes."

* * *

Alexander squeezed his eyes tightly shut and buried his face in his pillow. The pain in his head was blinding, it was as though deafening thunderclaps were echoing around inside his skull.

The lights had been turned off, which helped to a certain extent, but the hum of the hospital generator and the low voices outside felt like hot needles of pain being driven through his ears and into his head.

He didn't know what had brought this on, he'd never had a migraine before. Though, he guessed that the events of the previous hour hadn't exactly mollified his already higher than average anxiety level.

But his head hurt too much to think about that sort of thing right then. He pressed himself further into his mattress and drew the covers up around him, trying to block out the noises around him. Even the ticking of the clock on the wall felt like rhythmic stabs of sharp, concentrated pain.

He heard the door open and winced again, clamping his hands over his ears and biting down hard on his lip. There was a gentle tap on his shoulder and he rolled onto his back, meeting the gaze of that same nurse who had brought Lafayette, John, Hercules, Martha and George in.

She held a glass of water in one hand and a paper bag in the other. Alexander winced again.

He reached forward for the water but found his hand too shaky and weak to grasp it properly, it was heavy.

The nurse helped him take a few sips, supporting his hand without the impatient, tired expression he had expected to see on her face.

She lifted the cup away from his mouth and he slumped back into the bed, closing his eyes against the nausea now stirring in his stomach, pushing bile up his throat.

He reached his hand out blindly, squeezing his eyes shut. The nurse hesitated slightly, not sure what he was asking for. She passed him the paper bag and almost as soon as it was in his hands, he was sick.

He let the nurse take the bag from him, all the while trying to repress the horrible feelings of shame, anxiety and that _nausea_ still breaking like waves in his stomach.

He tried to choke out an apology, opening his mouth and managing to expel a few stuttered, rasping syllables.

He flopped back on the bed and pulled the covers more wholly over himself, sensing rather than hearing the nurse leaving the room.

He tried to fall asleep then, drifting in and out of consciousness for what could have been five minutes, or an hour. He was tucked tightly underneath his duvets, obstinately refusing to focus on his surroundings or the horrible smells of human suffering and death hospitals tried to cover up with bleach.

He hated hospitals, he hated anything to do with medicine or doctors. He hated talking about them, he hated thinking about them, he hated anything to do with them. It all just brought back too many memories.

When his mother and he had become ill with a fever four years ago, she'd refused to call any doctors for herself. His fever had broken quickly, he could have called someone, but by the time she was ill enough to need the hospital, she couldn't form the words to tell Alex to do so. She died so suddenly, he had barely the time to get out of bed, let alone recover enough to move to the phone.

When he'd lived in New York with Pace, trips to the hospitals had become more regular. Often, when his foster father took things too far and he broke a rib or suffered a concussion, he'd go to bed that way. Often Alexander wouldn't make it half the night, waking up screaming in pain and begging to be taken to the ER.

The nurse came back then, someone else at her side. Neither of them disturbed him, pushing open the door carefully and making sure as little light as possible filtered into the room.

The female nurse who wore the hijab (Alex blearily noted that he should find out her name) pulled back his covers gently and began to change his drip, slowly and carefully removing the needle currently in his forearm and replacing it with something else.

Alexander hoped it was something for his migraine, or better yet, something to just knock him out for a few hours. He wanted anything but a state of consciousness in this place.

It must have been just that, because after the nurse had left it took under five minutes for the pain in his head to dull from a slicing hurt to a vague throbbing until he fell into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

Lafayette could hear Martha and George talking in the kitchen below. Well, he could hear sounds, not so much talking as quiet murmurs and low humming, filtered through layers of plaster and insulation.

He lay on his bed, neither underneath the covers or undressed. He still wore the same jeans and t-shirt that he had spent the entire day in. It was warm in the house, the heating turned on to a comfortable temperature, yet he had goosebumps on his forearms anyway.

Martha and George were talking about something, keeping something from him. They'd acted strangely in the hospital when Alexander had asked about social services, and they'd acted strangely upon his questioning them in the car.

He honestly wasn't sure what to make of it. What was going on with their custody of Alexander that they couldn't even tell him?

He thought he'd call John, he needed to hear the voice of the person he could talk to the easiest, he thought John might too.

He turned on his phone and called his number, chewing nervously on his lip as it rang. John didn't disappoint. He picked up a few seconds later and responded in a drowsy, sleepy tone.

"Yo?"

Lafayette sighed into the phone, turning into his stomach and flicking off the light. The room was submerged in soft darkness, a fuzzy white glow emanating from Lafayette's phone that faded throughout the room.

"Désolé, je t'ai réveillé?"

 _Sorry, did I wake you?_

He heard lethargic, fumbling stirring in the background of the call, evidence that John was lying on the couch in Hercules' living room.

"Yeah, but it's okay."

Lafayette rubbed a hand firmly across his face, feeling the puffiness of his eyes and the rough, sandpaper texture of his lips. He'd bitten at them far too much recently and hadn't used any lip balm for days.

"I'm sorry. I just, I-" he gave up on the English, biting some dried skin off his lip and resigning himself to his mother tongue, "J'arrive pas à dormir."

 _I can't sleep_

"I get it. Everything's just gone to shit. No one's- no one's talking about what's happened… and I- I just want Alex back."

He said all of this in practically one breath, as though the words had been itching at the back of his throat for days and he couldn't seem to get them out.

"Exactement! I miss him so much, and Maman et Papa sont bizarre, ils gardent les secrets. Everything is shit, Jean."

 _Exactly, I miss him so much and Maman and Papa are acting weird, they're keeping secrets._

He could hear John's sigh- so tired, so done. There was a moment in which Lafayette thought bitterly that he hadn't asked for this, that he just wanted everything to go back to the way things had been before. He had been perfectly happy then.

But… He had agreed to this. Five months ago when George and Martha had talked to him first about fostering another kid. Then, a month later when they told him all they knew about Alexander- which hadn't been much. He'd been so excited, he'd agreed instantly.

No, Alexander was Alexander. Even the parts of him that had caused this, that had done so much harm; all of them were Alexander. He had been given a choice, he supposed. What could he do now but deal with this as best he could?

He was snapped from these thoughts by John's voice, quiet and hesitant on the other end.

"What happened to Alex's arm?"

Lafayette sighed and stood up, pulling off his jeans and then flopping back onto his bed.

"He uh… What you're thinking, is not… He… Il s'automutile. Depuis il avait treize ans. Je suis dèsolè, J'aurais dû te dire. C'etait… C'etait compliqué. Je n'ai pas su quoi faire."

 _He cuts himself - since he was thirteen, I'm sorry, I should have told you. It was… it was complicated. I didn't know what to do._

There was a long period of silence on the other end of the call, Lafayette dug his fingers tightly into his mattress and waited, a mix of guilt and pity squirming like maggots inside him. Not cute little butterflies, nothing so romantic or pleasant.

When John did speak, his voice was quiet and scratchy, like static on a broken television.

"Why does this shit always happen to people who don't deserve it?"

Lafayette pulled the blankets around himself tighter and nestled down into the warmth his body had generated around him.

"Alex doesn't deserve this, you do not deserve all that's happening with your father. Yet, nothing like this happens to Lee or… or George. Rien!"

He could still hear his parents talking downstairs so he ducked his head under the duvet and turned the brightness of his phone down.

"Do you want to go see him tomorrow? Just you, me and Herc?"

Lafayette considered this. Tomorrow was Wednesday, they all had to back at school for Monday. He supposed there was no reason not to go tomorrow.

"Okay. I suppose it will be good to talk."

John sighed again and Lafayette rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling.

"I should let you sleep."

John grunted noncommittally and Lafayette gave a small, choked laugh.

"Night, then."

Lafayette could imagine John's expression then. Dark brows furrowed close, teeth biting the inside of his cheek.

"Night."

He hung up.

 **Hey, sorry for the delay on this one. I've been a bit ill and life is just hectic right now. I'm sorry! I'm not very happy with this chapter but...**


	31. Chapter 31

**Hello, sorry for the wait. People have been telling me to take a break, and I'm gonna do a Hamilton and say nah. I'm alright. I'm making headway on chapter two of that historical fanfiction I'm writing and just trying to manage shit.**

 **Ugh, I'm too tired to respond to reviews. Thanks for spamming 'update', I guess. Thanks to everyone who gives feedback, it's _so, so_ appreciated. Someone said I made them cry, I guess that's funny. I'll message with if you've reviewed on an account, d'accord. **

**A guest called CoD gave this hella long review that I half responded to already in the comments, I wanna thank them and just use the excuse of artistic licence, even though I know that's bullshit. (:**

 **Yeah, I'm tired, sorry.**

 **Trigger warnings: mentions of bullying, mention of abuse, mention of self harm, hospitals, needles/ injections, mentions/ subject of suicide, subject of antisemitism, mentions of death of parents.**

 **Full disclaimer, I _don't_ speak Spanish.**

Silver light tumbled through a gap in the curtains and onto the foot of Lafayette's bed, it's brightness just far-reaching enough to tip him into consciousness. He opened his eyes stutteringly and rubbed some sleep from where it had collected.

There was a noise outside in the corridor then, soft and almost quiet enough for Lafayette to drowsily dismiss. He could not, however, not after what had happened last week.

The French teenager started, his whole body stiffening and going ridged where he lay. Slowly, cautiously, like a cat moving towards an unsuspecting bird, he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

Lafayette pushed his feet into a pair of slippers and padded softly across the wooden floor of his bedroom, feeling his heartbeat accelerate faster and faster until he had almost tricked himself into believing he could actually hear its steady thumping.

He pushed open the handle of his bedroom door, for whatever reason he could feel his stomach doing somersaults, churning unpleasantly like he was moving too fast up an elevator.

He blinked as the bright light streaming onto the landing meeting his tired eyes and making momentarily shut them, stumbling to lean against the door jamb in disorientation.

Then, he opened his eyes and scanned the landing, feeling his fists clench and his throat tighten nervously as he did so.

Alexander sat by the door to Martha and George's bedroom, his tail swaying eagerly. He licked his paw and miaowed plaintively at Lafayette, padding over and brushing against his ankles.

Lafayette heaved a sigh and dragged a hand over his face, watching the cat with an expression of weary relief.

He honestly didn't know what he had expected to find, though relieved none the less that the cat was the source of the noise he'd heard.

Of course, Alexander would not be at home. He was most likely asleep then, in hospital, yet Lafayette had been reminded so accurately, so sharply, of the events of four days ago, that he had not been able to suppress his fear. He felt quite as though he was going a little insane.

"Tu m'as reveillé, gros bêta."

 _You woke me up, stupid._

He reached down and scooped the cat up, hoisting its small body gently into his arms and carrying it downstairs to the kitchen.

Growing up in France, he'd only ever had small little pets like fish and things. His mother had kept a canary for a few years, which had been nice.

It used to sing at the same exact time every morning. His father used to say that if there was ever a carbon monoxide leak, they'd do just fine.

If only canaries could detect inevitable car accidents.

Lafayette almost laughed aloud then, revelling in the sheer absurdity of this thought.

As soon as the mirth had come, however, it died and he was left clutching the cat in his arms, tighter than he would have liked with a horrible feeling of hollowness in his stomach.

He thought about his parents often, every day even.

Little things reminded him them. Like that coffee shop he frequented with his friends, certain smells like that of _le savon de Marseille_ or a _quiche à l'oignon_ ; the Kosher version of the _quiche à Lorraine_ his classmates would eat.

He didn't eat Kosher anymore, the habit hadn't exactly become ingrained before he'd moved to America and he hadn't really understood much about his religion when he was a child.

He had just eaten what his parents had given him, gone to the Synagogue on Shabbat and learnt to recognise the odd Hebrew phrase the Rabbi would use during services. Sure, he'd had to read the entire book of Exodus and could probably recount a fair bit of it from memory, but he had never really been old enough to actually understand the religion in a deeper way.

This reminded him, Hanukkah was approaching fast. He remembered checking the dates recently, this year it would sometime mid-December, he thought the twelfth or thirteenth.

He didn't generally enjoy Hanukkah nowadays, though. It was just a period of time where loads of old memories were dragged up from his old life.

Some were good ones, yes, like meeting up with family, eating latkes and getting chocolate coins. But there were bad ones too.

Alt-right groups in France seemed to think religious holidays were the best possible times to take to the streets screaming _Mort au juifs_ or to spray the city with swastikas.

Both good and bad memories hurt, because the good ones, he knew, were over. Finished. The bad ones, though, weren't. Paris was still the same, being Jewish there was still the same.

He dismissed these thoughts as best he could and set about finding something for Alexander to eat.

Martha had been grocery shopping the other day, so he figured she'd remembered to buy some cat food. Thankfully, when he opened the cupboard under the oven he wasn't disappointed. A pack of small tins was stashed there, some of tuna or fish, some of meat.

He fed the cat from a bowl he'd pulled from the cupboard and set about making his own breakfast.

The Keurig gurgled noisily and he set a mug down before it, yawning as he slid some bread into the toaster. He cursed as the mug overflowed a little, too small to fit in all the machine had poured. He sipped at the excess, wincing as it burned his tongue, and sat down at the kitchen table with his food.

He scrolled through his iPhone for a while, refreshing his Instagram feed to see what his friends had posted. Apparently, some teacher had said something funny during a maths class the other day, there were videos of it on loads of his friends' accounts, but he couldn't care less.

The news was the usual too; Trump refusing to comment on neo-nazis, more information he didn't want to hear about the Las Vegas shooter, British politics he couldn't be bothered to keep up to date on what with everything happening in America and at home at the moment.

He opened Hercules' contact instead, texting his friend quickly about the plan to visit Alexander at the hospital that day.

 _Lafrançaise (just now): We will visit Alex at the hospital today, is that good?_

He responded almost instantly, giving Lafayette the distinct impression that, like him, he was sitting around with little to do.

 _Hercules-Mulligan (just now): Sure. John coming? I would ask but he's asleep._

 _Lafrançaise (just now): He said yes. We wanted to see Alex properly._

Lafayette winced very slightly at this, feeling as though his English was making very little sense. Sure enough, his friend responded with confusion.

 _Hercules-Mulligan (just now): ?_

 _Lafrançaise (just now): It is hard to explain, yesterday was very awkward. We could not discuss properly what had happened._

 _Hercules-Mulligan (just now): ah, okay. What time is good? 9? 10?_

 _Lafrançaise (just now): It is seven forty now. nine sounds okay. I will meet you & John there?_

 _Hercules-Mulligan (just now): sounds cool. You okay btw? Yesterday was hard._

Lafayette bit his lip. He had no desire to lie to his friend and knew telling the truth would cast him no lower in Hercules' estimates, but his friend had a very motherly personality about him. He didn't want to worry him.

 _Lafrançaise (just now): I'm alright._

 _Hercules-Mulligan (just now): In the nicest way possible, I don't really believe you tbh._

Lafayette sighed and coughed a few times, yawning and taking a sip of coffee from his mug. Hercules, despite Lafayette's annoyance with him at the time, had been right. He did have a cold coming on.

He scowled ever so slightly down at his phone screen, vaguely annoyed at his friend. He was fine, _he_ wasn't the one in hospital, _he_ hadn't tried to kill himself. Everyone should just stop asking him about how he felt, or whether he was okay. He was _fine._

 _Lafrançaise (just now): Herc, I'm fine. Leave it, okay._

 _Hercules-Mulligan (just now): Okay. Ttyl._

 _Lafrançaise (just now): sure._

He turned off his phone and groaned into his hands, feeling the sudden urge to pick up and smash his glass against the hard kitchen tiles. He resorted instead to angrily slamming his fist on the table, allowing water to slosh messily over the side of his glass.

There was movement in the corridor and Lafayette looked up to see George turn into the hallway, already dressed and shaved, looking far more awake than Lafayette felt.

"Are you alright? I heard something..."

He trailed off, stepping into the kitchen and smiling faintly at his son.

"Bien. Fine."

Lafayette responded slightly curtly, though making his tone just neutral enough so that he didn't exactly sound rude. The result was clear passive aggression that Lafayette couldn't even be bothered to try and correct.

George raised an eyebrow slightly and sat down next to him, watching Alexander finish his salmon in silence.

"So... This is Alexander, ey?"

Lafayette nodded, watching the cat's small head push the dish around the floor in his eagerness to eat.

"I can see why you named him what you did. Though it might get a little confusing."

Lafayette shrugged and mopped some of the spilt water up with the sleeve of his shirt.

"Maybe."

George grinned slightly, evidently trying to lighten up the conversation a little. It seemed rather forced to Lafayette, who had no desire at that moment to make jokes.

"Maybe we should nickname him Lex or something."

Lafayette shrugged again and George stood up, moving to the kettle to make two mugs of tea.

"You're quiet today," he noted, pouring some water into a mug while Lafayette scratched Alexander gently behind the ears.

"And you're _observant aujourd'hui._ "

 _And you're observant today._

He knew he was coming across as rude, but found he didn't really care.

George said nothing, though Lafayette was sure he heard the man sigh ever so slightly. He picked up both mugs and smiled at Gilbert again.

"I'm bringing this up to Martha, we'll be down for breakfast later. Have you eaten?"

Lafayette nodded again, not looking at George and instead kneeling down to rub the cat's belly where he'd sprawled out on the kitchen tiles.

George watched Lafayette for a moment, his face turned away from the doorway and looking out over the garden instead.

He turned then, walking back down the hallway and up the stairs towards his and Martha's room.

George carried the mugs carefully over the landing, making sure his hands were steady and using his shoulder to push open the bedroom door. He smiled at Martha, who was sat up in bed reading the news on her iPad.

He handed her the tea and sat back down next to her, glancing at the article she was reading with interest. She took the tea carefully and smiled warmly at him. It was possibly the most authentic looking smile she'd given him since everything with Alexander had happened.

"Is Gil up?"

George nodded and shifted on the bed uncomfortably.

"He is, he's acting a little standoffish though. I'm worried about him."

Martha put her tablet to the side and shifted a little closer across the mess of sheets and blankets on which they sat.

"I am too. He's not doing well. Half the time he's speaking French."

George nodded, wrapping his hands further around his mug. It was cold and the tea radiated a comforting warmth.

Martha pushed some hair behind her ear. She looked older then, with no makeup on, frowning and tired looking. Both of them were only just forty, but it did sometimes feel like they been alive decades longer; especially since the events of Saturday night.

"He and Alex got really close. John the same," sighed George.

Martha smiled into her tea at this and nodded.

"John and Alexander seem to like each other a lot."

George chuckled and took another sip of his tea, watching the steam from Martha's cup rise and dissipate softly.

"Who's visiting Alex today then? Do you want to let the kids go, and we can drop in later?"

Martha nodded at this and examined a chip in her nail polish, tilting the shiny surface into the light.

"When I talked to Alexander's brother, said he could FaceTime today or tomorrow with Alexander."

George nodded his assent and then, feeling a sudden surge of sentimentality strike him, he shifted closer to Martha and put an arm gently around her shoulder.

He could sense, rather than see her smile and she leant into him, placing her mug on the bedside table.

"I'm glad we're not waiting any longer for this."

George nodded, feeling the softness of Martha's hair tickle his jaw as she spoke.

"It's only been three months but... I don't think we can put it off any longer."

Martha nodded and watched the watercolour washed sky. It looked like wet paint, smooth and silky.

"When will we tell him?"

George shrugged and felt Martha's arm moving as she pulled and twisted at her bracelet; a habit she'd fallen back into recently.

"When things have calmed down a little. Any extra stress now won't be good for anyone."

Martha turned her head and kissed George lightly on his cheek, where it was freshly smooth from his morning shave.

"Shall I make some breakfast? Gil's eaten already."

George kissed Martha on the cheek in return and shrugged.

"I can make something if you want more time in bed."

Martha smiled and stood up, stretching and stepping lightly towards their chest of drawers and taking out some slacks.

"It's alright, I'll make something today. You can cook dinner tonight."

She smiled at him over her shoulder and began to change, the light catching her hair and skin so they looked almost coppery.

George walked downstairs and into the kitchen again, setting his empty mug into the sink and running the tap. Alexander brushed against his ankles and nuzzled his head against his leg, purring.

George looked down at the cat for a moment, watching him but not moving to stroke or pet him. Cats, he thought, tended to show affection to anyone that fed them.

He wouldn't say it to Lafayette or Martha, but he thought there was a good chance Alexander would find another family with food he liked the taste of better and would stay there.

Lafayette was still sat at the kitchen table, scrolling through his phone.

"Are you seeing Alexander today?"

He nodded, looking up only briefly before returning to his scrolling.

"Need a lift?"

His finger paused and he nodded again.

"Oui, thanks."

George turned back to the sink then, picking up a cloth and wiping clean a plate, wondering about Lafayette, about Martha, about James, and most of all; Alex.

* * *

Lafayette saw John and Hercules before they did him. They both sat on the wall of the hospital car park, waiting. John was kicking up dust with the tip of his shoes while Hercules sat almost still, pulling apart a dried leaf absently.

Lafayette watched them as the car slowed down at the entrance to the lot.

"Call me when John and Hercules leave, okay. Martha and I will come round."

Lafayette nodded, his eyes still fixed on his two friends a few yards away.

"Tell Alex we'll be along later, do you want money for something at the café there or anything?"

Lafayette shook his head, reaching to unbuckle his seatbelt and pushing some hair out of his face.

"How much credit is left on your phone? Do you still have some data?"

Lafayette turned to face George then, for the first time since they'd got in the car. His face was set angrily and he looked as though he was biting back sharp words just on the tip of his tongue.

"I'm _fine_ , papa. Leave it."

George said nothing as the French teenager opened the car door and stepped out onto the asphalt, raising his hand in greeting to John and Hercules.

"I'll..." He turned back slightly, head tipping just a few degrees over his shoulder to watch George, biting his lip sheepishly, "I'll see you soon, papa."

George smiled, nodding and pulling at the clutch, rolling the window back up as he did so.

"See you soon."

Lafayette walked over to where John and Hercules stood, wrapping each in a one-armed hug and shooting Hercules an apologetic glance. He'd been quite short with him over text earlier.

Hercules smiled back warmly and as they walked towards the entrance to the hospital, placed a hand on the small of Lafayette's back, stepping even closer to him than before and shooting him another smile. The French teenager smirked slightly to himself and looked away, watching John as he walked a few paces ahead of them.

The waiting room was quiet and grey, as usual, the fluorescent lights humming monotonously and the ceiling fans spinning in a lazy, sluggish manner.

They signed their names down in the visitors' book hastily, Lafayette tapping his foot impatiently where he stood, his fingers hooked in his belt loops.

This time, they were able to find Alexander's room by themselves, acutely recalling the route from their visit just yesterday.

Alexander was sat up in bed when they enter the room. The blinds were pulled open and his room appeared to have been tidied somewhat, the items arranged on his bedside table stacked neatly in piles.

Lafayette was reminded sharply if how Alexander had ordered his room before he'd taken those pills, though quickly halted that train of thought, shaking it away like he would a cloud of midges.

A breakfast tray sat in front of him bearing a plastic plate of what looked like bacon and eggs, a mug of something or other and a bowl of fruit.

The fruit looked half finished, but the bacon and eggs barely touched. Knowing Alexander, he'd probably spent a good twenty minutes pushing the food absently around his plate rather than actually eating it.

He looked up as they entered, closing the book he'd had open in front of him and setting it aside. It was an AP politics textbook.

He looked pretty much the same as he had when they'd last seen him, pale and sickly with dark under eye circles and dry lips. Though he wasn't wincing away from lights or writhing in pain so Lafayette supposed, this state was an improvement.

"Salut!"

Lafayette raised his hand in greeting and practically bounced the few steps over to Alexander's bedside, his demeanour suddenly dramatically different to the rather reserved one he'd recently been sporting.

"Hey, guys."

Alexander smiled slightly and used their arrival as an excuse to push the tray of food slowly away from himself, sitting up a little straighter and turning to face them.

Lafayette leant down and hugged him as best he could in their awkward position, wrapping one gentle arm around him and pulling him close.

John stepped forward a few paces and smiled somewhat awkwardly, doing the same. He held the embrace for a little longer, however, not wanting to release himself from Alexander's warmth or the way his hair smelt too soon. He'd missed this.

Hercules was next. He hugged him quickly, like Lafayette, and stepped back, grinning.

"Your head okay? Looked pretty bad last night," queried Hercules, sitting down and pushing himself closer towards Alexander.

The teenager nodded once, shrugging dismissively.

"I'm alright," he waved his hand at the several machines beeping and working next to him, "They put me out for a few hours."

Lafayette and John sat down on the hard-backed chairs in turn and made themselves comfortable as they could. The hospital, as hospitals generally were, was warm and Lafayette found himself itching to pull off his sweater.

"Maman et Papa are coming around later. Because there cannot be more than three visitors."

Alex nodded again and John watched him play with the pages of a textbook, thumbing his fingers over a wedge of pages.

"Maman a dit- Maman said she called James."

Alexander's head shot up at this, with an almost bird-like, jerky and instantaneous motion. He looked around at them frantically, almost as though he expected James to be there in the room with them.

"When? When did she call him?"

Lafayette sighed and rubbed the back of his head thoughtfully. When he spoke, Alexander seemed to be hanging onto his every word, his mouth ever so slightly open.

"The same day it happened. Sunday."

Alexander groaned softly and put his face in his hands, some dark hair falling to obscure him from their view. John shot Lafayette a quizzical glance, the French boy shrugging in return and placing a tentative hand on Alex's hospital gown-clad shoulder.

"Well... Je pense... Il n'est peut être pas le bon moment, mais ... He was going to FaceTime today."

 _I think... this might not be the best moment, but..._

Alexander was silent for a moment, watching Lafayette with an alarmed, disbelieving expression.

"I haven't talked to him in over two years."

Lafayette stopped fidgeting with the string on his hoodie, his eyes widening and his hand holding on to Alexander's shoulder a little tighter.

"Over two years?"

Alexander rushed to clarify, his face heating slightly, clearly embarrassed and uncomfortable with the sudden silence. He tapped his fingers restlessly against the metal frame of his bed and Lafayette could see he was biting the inside of his cheek.

"I- I mean, we've emailed and he sends me postcards sometimes."

He looked down at the hospital band around his wrist and played with it awkwardly, almost sullenly. He sighed.

John wished then they were sat at home on Lafayette's couch so that he could pull himself closer to Alexander, he wished they were lying out in the park or in any position possible in which he could comfort him. But of course, the situation did not allow for that sort of display of affection.

"I mean... You should probably talk to him... He'll be worrying."

Alexander sighed again and let go of his wristband, moving instead to play with the cannula at his nose. John wondered when he'd cease needing it.

"He only emailed last time," Alexander muttered, still fiddling, "we've never facetimed or anything..."

John's fingers paused in their direction towards his hair, the strand and he'd been about to push back hung distractingly in his face. He didn't care; he felt as though the blood within his veins had just frozen.

"Last time?"

Lafayette sat up a little straighter and John swore he saw his hand twitch infinitesimally in the direction of where Hercules' own hand lay, on the arm of the chair.

Alexander's face paled drastically and the vague beeping John had been able to previously ignore accelerated slightly in speed.

"I- I..."

He trailed off, looking hopelessly around as if for an escape route. If they were in another situation, or if this conversation had happened before now, Alexander would have most likely just said that he was tired and retreated to his room.

Now, however, he had no excuse. John would have pitied him, the teen must have felt awful, but he was far too focused on finding out exactly what the Alex meant.

"Have you... attempted before now?"

Hercules seemed to be the only one with a working voice at that moment and leant forward slightly, his hand also subtly moving closer to Lafayette's.

Alex closed his eyes and drew in a sharp breath, nodding his head so slightly the action might have been missed if all three of the teenagers weren't watching him so intently.

"When I was like thirteen or so. Boys' home, when I first came here. It was so long ago now, it doesn't even matter."

John frowned and opened his mouth, about to say something, but Lafayette beat him to it.

"What!" He threw his hands into the air and stared wide-eyed at his friend, "Alexander, I'm pretty sure-"

Hercules held out a hand to silence the French teenager, whose loud and somewhat exasperated tone had made Alexander flinch back in surprise.

"Laf, cool it."

The French teenager folded his arms and Hercules continued, his voice cool and collected. He sometimes reminded John of George, though his sense of humour was a little less deadpan.

"Do you want to tell us about it, if you're comfortable with that?"

His fingers, still twitching nearer and nearer towards Lafayette, brushed the back of the French teenager's hand. The latter started slightly at this feather light touch but moved his hand surreptitiously on top of Hercules', squeezing gently.

"I... I suppose," he still wasn't looking directly at any of them, his gaze hopping from his own hands to the collar of John's shirt, to the door.

"I mean... Don't get me wrong, it wasn't a fun time but..." He shrugged and looked towards the window, "my life's not some fucking sob story. I don't need pity from anyone."

John nodded reassuringly, vigorously, Hercules and Lafayette quickly following suit and shifting further inwards.

"I guess... Well, this boys' home place. I was there for maybe three or four months. Outskirts of New York, not really the city. The first few months I spent in America were spent there."

He pauses, watching them from under a curtain of hair, frowning slightly and knitting his brow.

"It was alright I mean... I didn't get on with some of the boys but, you know, that's how it goes. I just- It was hard," he shrugged again and continued to fiddle, seemingly unable to keep his hands still.

"My English was shaky, my mom had just... I mean... It hadn't been long since... Since 'that' and I was in a whole new country."

He bit his lip and continued. Something shifted in the air slightly, tension strengthening and locking tightly into place around them.

"I was on these prescription sleeping meds, foster care paid for them, and I took like a dozen one night. Went to sleep, woke up to my roommate freaking out and making me sick into the toilet. Long story short, I went to the hospital, stayed there a few nights, survived with no lasting effects."

John realised then that he had been holding his breath. He exhaled slowly, audibly and shifted where he sat. The teenager stared sheepishly down at his bedsheets, glancing at John fleetingly and shifting where he lay.

Lafayette was the first to speak. He bit his lip and leant closer into Alexander, grasping his shoulder with a grounding, firm hand and looking him straight in the eye.

"Mais, c'est du passé tout ça maintenat. Nous sommes ici, nous voulons t'aider, et nous pouvons t'aider. Ça semble très ringard," he laughed and shrugged awkwardly, "mais, c'est vrai."

 _But that's all behind you now. We're here, we want to help you, and we can help you. That sounds really cheesy but it's true._

Alex gnawed on his lip for a moment before nodding, seemingly stealing himself to do so. He spoke quietly then, barely a whisper.

"D'accord... j'essayerai."

 _Okay... I will try._

He had not yet looked up at any of them, still pulling uncomfortably at the hospital band around his wrist.

Then, like an elastic band snapping, John's restraint broke. The almost magnetic pull towards Alexander dragged him into action, he would have very much liked to kiss him then, but instead settling for taking his hand a squeezing it hard, fighting the ever growing urge to embrace the teenager.

The words came tumbling out of his mouth like a waterfall, overflowing and pushing each other to get out. His voice was slightly frantic, it was clear that the thoughts he was voicing had been bottled up inside him for a long time, festering and spreading like a disease.

"Je suis vraiment désolé, je suis désolé, c'est de ma faute, j'arrête pas de penser que j'aurais dû faire quelque chose plus pour toi, si je n'étais pas un tel connard-"

 _I'm so sorry, I'm sorry, it's my fault, I can't stop thinking that I should have done something more for you. If I wasn't such an asshole-"_

John stopped himself abruptly and fell silent, looking down at where his and Alexander's hands were joined, feeling slightly sick.

He could sense Lafayette, Alexander's and Hercules' eyes on him. The latter would have no idea what he'd just said, but the tension hanging now in the air would have told him enough to know that John's outburst had been shocking.

"Jean, ce n'est pas vrai, Je ne-"

Hercules coughed awkwardly and Lafayette, who had been speaking, turned to face him.

"English, maybe?" He rubbed the back of his head sheepishly and shrugged, "I'm kinda losing the plot here..."

Lafayette slapped a hand across his forehead in an exaggerated expression of frustration and nodded, looking apologetic.

"D'accord- I mean, okay. Sorry. John said that- he thinks himself at fault for this," he gestured towards Alexander, frowning, "that he behaved like an asshole."

Hercules narrowed his eyes and fixed John with a bewildered stare, that gave way a second later to a look of knowing recollection.

 _"John, this isn't your fault."_

 _Hercules is trying to catch his eye, leaning down and staring at him with thinly disguised concern and fear._

 _John covers his face with his hand and shakes his head._

 _"I could have done something, I should have..."_

 _Hercules takes John's wrist and holds it away from his face, staring John straight in the eyes._

 _"Done what John? You couldn't be with him every second of every day, you couldn't have stopped this, it's happened now. We just need to deal with it as best we can. There's no point in 'should haves' and 'could haves'."_

John sighed and rubbed his face with his free hand, feeling Alexander's fingers grip his even tighter.

"John, I don't blame you. All this is my fault, it's... It was my choice, no one forced my hand."

Alexander's voice was low and soft, as though he didn't care so much about anyone but John hearing him.

John inhaled slowly, deeply, and shrugged, looking at the artificially coloured fruit in Alexander's bowl.

"I just feel like I should have been able to do something."

Alexander moved his left arm out from under the blankets and placed it on top of John's, so three of their hands were joined. His forearm was still bandaged though the dressing looked freshly changed.

"I- I don't blame you for this. In fact, I think if none of you were here it would've... it would've happened a lot sooner."

John said nothing, shrugging and squeezing hard on Alexander's hand. Lafayette slung an arm over his shoulder and poked his nose affectionately, making John squirm away, grinning.

At that moment, the nurse, John remembered Lafayette telling him her name was Marian, walked in. She smiled warmly at them and set down a large tray she'd been holding on the table opposite the bed.

"Morning! How are you guys?"

Lafayette relinquished his hold on John's shoulder and smiled, watching the nurse.

"Fine, glad to see Alex. How about you?"

She nodded, assembling what seemed to be a syringe at the table, though she was turned away from them.

"I'm good, just curious as to why Alexander's not finished his breakfast."

Alex blushed dark red and shrugged, eyeing the tray with distaste.

"I- I don't like bacon."

Marian turned around and shrugged, smiling.

"Can't say I've ever had it, but you need to eat. You won't be discharged until you've gained some weight."

She leant forward and slid the tray closer to Alexander, raising her eyebrows in a half stern, half playful manner.

He glanced from Lafayette to John, to Hercules and sighed, clearly embarrassed. Slowly, he picked up some of the scrambled egg on his fork and began to eat, resolutely ignoring the bacon. He looked ever so slightly sick and John wondered whether or not the nausea he'd probably experienced the night before had completely worn off.

"I have to give you this shot for preventing any more seizures. It's necessary more as a precaution than anything else, you're probably past the stage where you'll have another seizure by now."

Alexander shrugged and nodded, putting down the fork and letting go of John's hand. The nurse pushed up the sleeve of his hospital gown slightly and injected him quickly, Alex not wincing or flinching away at all. John supposed he was accustomed to much worse pain.

She drew out the needle and put the syringe in a plastic bag, dropping it back in the tray.

She smiled at Lafayette and walked nearer to the door, her arms full.

"Assures qu'il mange, oui?"

 _Make sure he eats, yes?_

Lafayette opened his mouth to respond, grinning, but Alexander beat him to it.

"Je vais manger, mais pas le bacon."

 _I will eat, but not the bacon_

The nurse frowned for a moment at this and John looked at Alexander quizzically, wondering what he had against the food. Sure, he got that he might dislike it, but Alexander wasn't exactly known for being fussy about what he ate. It was out of character to refuse what had been made for him, just on the basis he disliked it.

"Okay, I'll have a look at your meal plan and see what I can do. You'll eat most other things?"

Alexander nodded and ate another forkful of scrambled eggs to prove it, shrugging.

The nurse smiled and left, her footsteps retreating gradually down the quiet corridor. It was still early, and most patients weren't awake.

"What do you have against bacon? Just asking, the shit's pretty good, man."

John grinned this comment light-heartedly but the mirth on his face slowly died when he took in Alexander's expression. The teenager had gone a particularly saturnine, sickly pale shade and dropped his fork where it hovered over his plate.

Lafayette glanced at John in concern and knitted his brow, his eyes narrowed. Alex collected himself quickly, however, picking up the fork and taking another mouthful of food in an attempt to escape saying something.

"You okay?"

Alexander nodded vigorously and swallowed, his face still pale and swallow looking, though, it had been since they came in. He hadn't sported his natural, golden tan in a few months now.

Lafayette seemed to be internally debating whether or not to drop the subject or not, a second later evidently deciding on leaving it. Alexander had been through enough these past few days without them pestering him.

"What were you reading just then?"

Alexander set down his fork and picked up the next book next to his bed, opening it to a dog-eared page.

"Just this section on the federal bureaucracy."

Lafayette took the textbook and scanned the page quickly, humming in interest.

"I think that was on the syllabus for this semester, we'll study it soon."

Alexander nodded and felt the side of the mug on his tray.

"C'est fraîche- it's gone cold."

Lafayette sucked his teeth and leant back in his chair, resting his arms behind his head.

"Do you want a drink from the vending machine? Je peut t'acheter quelque chose."

 _I can buy you something._

Alexander shrugged and pushed the fork around his plate, through the still half-finished food.

"Okay, if you're down."

He nodded and stood up, mentioning for Hercules to stand up too.

"Venir avec moi, allons-y."

 _Come with me, let's go_.

Hercules grinned at the two of them and followed Lafayette from the room, the French teenager's voice retreating down the corridor until his bubbly tone was out of earshot.

John turned to Alex and smiled at him, suddenly feeling more exposed and vulnerable than he had in a while. It struck him that this was the first time they'd been alone together in over a week.

"I really want you to know, I don't blame you and this isn't your fault."

John looked at his lap and nodded, biting his lip somewhat awkwardly.

"Yeah... Yeah, I know."

He looked up to see Alexander had leaned inwards slightly, so that they were less than thirty centimetres from each other.

It was John who moved in the rest of the way, connecting their lips. He could feel the hard rubber of the cannula at Alexander's nose but found he didn't much care, he wasn't about to let that stop him from kissing the boy he'd missed for so long.

Alex leant forward as far as he could without falling out of the bed and used his knee to nudge the tray away from him. John's hand reached out to hold his waist gently and Alexander grinned slightly into the kiss, their teeth clashing momentarily.

They pulled away a moment later, both smiling sheepishly.

"I've missed that," John admitted. To Alexander, but also to himself.

"Listen, I'm sorry about all the shit I said at the cinema. I didn't mean any of it."

Alexander shook his head and wrinkled his nose at the memory.

"Nah. It's alright. Asshole of that evening goes to Lee, not you."

John furrowed his brows and nodded, pulling his hair out of his ponytail and promptly retying it, just to have something to do with his hands.

"What did he mean that night, when he said something about you mentioning us going there?"

Alexander sighed and fiddled again with the band around his wrist. It was plastic and laminated, with his name and a few strings of numbers printed along it.

"Just before I went out to meet you, I ran into Lee and George. They were gonna, you know, do their thing and I said I had somewhere to be. I didn't even mention I was going out with you or that I was going to the cinema."

John sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

"That's why you were limping."

Alexander gritted his teeth and shrugged, sweeping some of his hair behind his ears. John watched this action intently, noting his rapidly fraying hairband struggling to hold all his hair in place.

"Do you want a hairband or something? I have some spares."

He nodded and John pulled a band from his wrist, holding out to Alexander. The teenager flipped his hair in front of him and scraped it all into a knot, having to leave a few baby hairs loose at the nape of his neck.

"How long have you had long hair?"

Alex shrugged and straightened up, his face now unobscured. This was an improvement in some senses, John could now see his expressions clearer and make proper eye contact, but it did bring into relief his obvious ill health; the shallowness of his cheeks and bluish undertones to his skin.

"It was short-ish before I came to America, but I haven't had more than a trim in a few years. It started because I didn't trust anyone near me with scissors," he blanched slightly and shrugged "but now I kinda like it like this. You?"

John grinned and shrugged, "well, my dad hates it, but I'm not exactly known for doing what he wants me to. I grew it out mainly to annoy him but like you said, I like it now."

Alex laughed and John felt a swooping sensation in his chest and grinned back, revelling in the fact that he had made Alexander laugh. The first real laugh he'd displayed since he'd woken up.

Just then, Lafayette and Hercules walked back in. Lafayette held two bottles of Lipton tea, one of water and one of coke.

"I didn't know what you would want, I got you a Lipton."

Alexander shrugged and accepted the drink, cracking the seal and taking a sip. He read the label and smiled slightly.

"I've always liked the lemon one better, the peach one wasn't all that common on Nevis. We had it in cans there, you know."

Hercules laughed and took a sip of his water.

"Weird..."

* * *

George pressed down on the break and the car slowed to a halt in the already darkening parking lot, the trees planted on the other side of the west wall casting dark shadows over all the cars.

Martha unbuckled her seatbelt next to him and shot him a small smile, straightening her blouse and patting her hair carefully. She'd gone into work for a few hours that morning, complaining to George that she'd been dodging questions about the reason for her absence all day.

They got out of the car together and walked across the lot towards the doors of the hospital. It was just a little after four but the sun had already dipped low in the sky, its golden arms stretching out towards them and splashing their surroundings with light.

They signed in quickly and walked through the hospital to Alexander's room on the third floor. The building wasn't exceedingly busy yet most wards they passed on the way up seemed to be occupied to some extent.

Alexander was sitting quietly up in bed when they arrived, fiddling with his wristband and bouncing his leg restlessly as John, Lafayette and Hercules chatted amicably. John was sitting closest to Alex, on a chair right by the edge of his bed.

Their hands lay out on the duvet, loosely clasped together, John's fingers tracing languid patterns over the back of Alexander's hand.

As Martha watched, she found it exceedingly difficult not to notice the way the two boys were glancing at each other. Though Lafayette was the one talking, Alexander's eyes flitted almost imperceptibly to John at least every minute or so, always meeting his gaze and smiling slightly, lowering his head, self-conscious.

Alexander looked up at the two of them as they entered the room and nodded in greeting, not exactly smiling but letting his lips twitch slightly, the ghost of a happy greeting.

Lafayette turned around and, adversely, grinned at them. His demeanour appeared decidedly different from the sullen, reticent one he'd displayed that morning.

John's face fell slightly as he took them in. He straightened up from his relaxed position on the chair and fell silent. Martha and George's arrival meant his and Hercules' departure and so far today he had only spent about five minutes alone with Alexander.

Hercules glanced at John and reached for his coat, draped across the back of his chair. They'd get the bus back to Hercules' house now, leaving Lafayette, George and Martha at the hospital.

Tomorrow maybe John would go into school for a few classes, maybe not. He had yet to decide.

"Afternoon," smiled Martha, unwrapping the woollen scarf tied around her throat and resting a hand on Lafayette's shoulder.

John smiled in return and glanced again at Alexander, feeling the teenager's eyes on him.

"I think that's our cue to leave," Hercules smiled and zipped up his jacket, pulling on the charcoal grey scarf he'd bought last fall.

John remembered taking the piss out of him for weeks after he'd gotten it. He'd spent his entire allowance on it and it was literally just a grey scarf... He thought he could recall Hercules scoffing and telling him he wouldn't know fashion if it danced right in front of his nose in a Balmain suit.

He hadn't really gotten the reference.

"Wouldn't want to get in trouble with the nurses."

John stayed silent as tugged on his leather jacket and glanced at Alexander, wishing he could have just five more minutes with him, have him to himself for _any_ length of time, preferably a large one. They watched each other as John pulled a beanie on over his hair, smiling.

"Te extrañaré, cariño."

 _I'll miss you, baby._

John didn't speak Spanish, not by any means, but he'd done it for three years in middle school and had gotten B's and the occasional A. His dad spoke it though, being Puerto Rican, so he'd learned the odd phrase here and there.

He wouldn't pin himself even close to fluency though, or even as having a conversational skill with the langauge. Now, however, it was the only way to get his point across to Alex without anyone else understanding.

Alexander's eyes widened ever so slightly before he bit his lip and turned away from John, his face burning a furious red.

"Eres un coqueto incorregible, cariño."

 _You're an incorrigible flirt, baby._

John grinned, feeling a certain warmth blooming in his chest at Alexander's return of the nickname, even though it was at the very least semi-ironic.

Hercules tilted his head slightly and looked at him, bewildered. John shook his head, feeling his face spilt into a wide grin.

He pulled Lafayette into a quick, one-armed hug and patted him on the back reassuringly, feeling Hercules' strong hand tugging on his cuff. Lafayette's eyes wrinkled kindly at the corners and he muttered in John's ear,

"Envoie-moi un message ce soir, d'accord. Je ne comprends pas espagnol, tu devras traduire."

 _Text me tonight, alright, I don't understand Spanish, you will have to translate._

John rolled his eyes but nodded, hearing Hercules tut at their lateness behind him. John half expected to turn around and see him tapping his watch. He was _such_ a mom.

"We're gonna miss the 4:15 bus, we should leave."

John released Lafayette, smirking and nodded politely at George and Martha, fighting down the large grin that was still spread across his face, making him look, he was sure, a little stupid.

They both watched him, half quizzical, half amused for a moment before smiling and waving as Hercules pulled him from the room and down the hospital corridor.

 **Hey, dudes, I'm sorry to end it there, but it was at like 7,600 words and it's late and I'm tired; you can probably see my writing standard lowering as the chapter goes on tbh.**


	32. Chapter 32

**Hey, I can only really say sorry for how long it's been... I'm not quitting the story, or even taking a break, I've just been a little busy. I'm writing loads, and hopefully I'll be a little quicker from now on.**

 **I'll respond to reviewers with accounts via PMs**

 **Chilazon: Great! If you have an account you can long in on, that would be cool! I could PM you.**

 **Caps Lock guest: thanks! You are very sweet, that means a lot!**

 **ElizaPhillip: Thanks!**

 **Wow: aww, thanks! Don't worry, I'm not gonna pass up on opportunities for nice, juicy angst. Don't worry.**

 **Anyway, this chapter contains four different languages. My goal these days is to add as many in as I can, I love languages. It should be fun! I don't speak German or Spanish, though, so if there are errors, hmu, I'll correct them.**

 **Trigger Warnings: Suicide subject matter, mentions of abuse, parent leaving/ abandonment, class issues, smoking.**

Alexander's face retained the pink blush John's words had caused even after the boy had left the ward and retreated down the corridor with Hercules.

He smiled at Martha and George as they moved further into the room, shifting more upright and folding his hands neatly on his lap.

"Hey, how you feeling?"

Martha's tone was light-hearted and kind, though undoubtedly pervaded with some degree of concern. George's expression seemed to mirror these feelings.

"I'm alright, much better than last night."

George smiled and nodded at Lafayette, who was still perched on the edge of the chair he'd dragged over to Alexander's bedside.

"I'm glad, anyway, I think Gilbert told you, Martha's added your brother to her contacts of FameTime. You can call him whenever you want."

Alexander nodded, the blush he'd been sporting dying away slightly and his posture stiffening noticeably. Lafayette surveyed him for a moment and bit his lip, a cut opening up there from where he'd been biting at the dried skin.

"Est-ce que tu veux l'appeler ce soir?"

 _Do you want to call him tonight?_

The fact that only Alexander and Lafayette understood the language broke down the barrier that Alexander had put between himself and the Washingtons. He didn't have to feel forced into deciding anything only because they were there, he could talk to Lafayette freely.

"Je ne sais pas, qu'elle heure et-il en Londres?"

 _I don't know, what time is it in London?_

Lafayette counted under his breath for a moment, ignoring the slightly baffled looks on his parents' faces.

"Uh, environ neuf heures le soir. Il est probablement être chez lui."

 _Uh, around nine at night. He'll probably be at home._

Alexander shrugged, looking slightly ill.

"Je ne sais pas. C'est puéril, mais je suis stressé."

 _I don't know, it's childish, but I'm nervous._

Lafayette shook his head and watched Alexander pensively for a moment, as though considering him.

"Il faut juste que tu serres les dents, il va s'inquieter si tu ne l'appeler."

 _Just bite the bullet, he'll worry if you don't call._

Alexander sighed and nodded, fiddling with his bandage, sliding his finger underneath the first layer and pulling absently.

"Okay then, I'll call him now I guess."

Martha nodded and from her bag took out her iPad, turning it on and bringing up James' contact. She'd added it that morning and texted the man to tell him Alexander would call sometime in the next day or so.

Martha handed him the iPad, which he took hesitantly, with both hands. Lafayette got the impression that this was the first time in a while that he'd been trusted to hold technology so expensive.

He didn't have a phone, or iPad, or anything like that, normally in his free time he'd read or write. Lafayette thought he'd raise the issue with his parents sooner rather than later.

"Do you want us to wait somewhere else? We don't have to be here."

Alexander looked very much like he'd like to accept this suggestion, but he said nothing, seemingly torn between getting what he wanted and his self-sacrificial tendency to bear discomfort rather than offend people.

Lafayette answered for him, almost smiling, knowing what his brother wanted but was too polite to say.

"I think that's a good idea."

Alexander looked pointedly at Lafayette, nodded and then spoke to him again in French.

"Rester avec moi."

 _Stay with me_

The French teenager nodded and translated quickly to his parents, Alexander looking away, embarrassed and feeling a little like a difficult child.

"That's alright, we can go downstairs, maybe if you want to introduce us later, Gilbert can call us up."

Alexander nodded and smiled awkwardly at George, who'd spoken, drumming his fingers, which still bore faded inkstains from a few days ago, against the side of the iPad.

The two adults stepped back out of the room and Lafayette shifted closer towards Alexander, so as to hold his hand more comfortably.

Lafayette opened FaceTime and showed Alexander how it worked, who'd never used it before. It was relatively simple, so Alex had no excuse to spend longer than they had to looking at the app rather than actually calling his brother.

He opened Martha's contacts and pressed on James' name, squeezing Lafayette's hand and holding his breath.

It rang for barely five seconds before James answered, his face appeared on the screen, patchy and blurry at first until the camera adjusted and the picture came into focus more clearly.

To Alexander, he had and hadn't changed. It was strange. His hair, which had been down past his ears when they'd lived in Nevis, was now shaved at the sides and longer at the top. His face, though it seemed older, looked fundamentally the same. Dark eyes and tanned skin, like Alexander, with the same sharp cheekbones.

James however, Lafayette noticed, didn't share Alexander's nose. His friend's nose was defined and slightly pointed at its tip, whereas James' was wider. But, apart from that, they looked very much like brothers. Their features similar in the way Hercules' were to Hugh, not identical, but bearing a relatively strong degree of resemblance.

James' face was set anxiously, his jaw tight and his brows furrowed. He was sat in what looked like a bedroom, behind him an oasis poster and a chest of drawers. It could have been his room at home, or where he lived on campus at UCL.

Alexander paled and his stomach tightened painfully, a familiar feeling of panic-pain blooming in his chest, like something heavy had been placed upon it.

"James."

James' expression seemed to morph through a vast array of emotions in a very short space of time. At first, his eyes were blown wide and his mouth open in slight shock, then, his face softened and he looked as though he was about to smile, finally, his expression settled into concern as he took in his brothers pallor, dark under eyes and hunger defined cheekbones.

"Alex..."

There was a moment of silence and complete stillness in the room, Lafayette sat out of the view of the camera, still holding Alex's hand.

"Hace tanto tiempo..."

 _It's been a while..._

James spoke, breaking the silence and smiling slightly at his younger brother. Alexander nodded and a grin split his face, his eyes softening and the pain in his chest loosening.

"Hablas español con un acento británico."

 _You speak spanish with a british accent._

James shrugged and grinned, rubbing his jaw where stubble was growing, something that must have started in the last few years since Alexander had seen him.

"¿Cómo éstas?"

 _How are you?_

Alexander shrugged and bit his lip, looking down at his bandaged arm and the tube of his cannula, feeling at once very self-conscious. He was sure he looked pitiful. Skinny, ill, clad in a hospital gown, unable to even fucking breathe alright on his own.

"Vivo."

 _I'm alive_.

It sounded a little like a joke, the way he spoke, the timing, but neither of them laughed. It wasn't really very funny.

"I'm sorry I don't call. I'm sorry we lost touch."

James spoke in English then, his British accent stronger now, though his vowels clipped by something similar to the accent Alexander often slipped into himself. It was Spanish sounding, with vague French-Caribbean intonations.

This accent was more obvious in James than it was in Alexander. Lafayette thought it was probably due the latter being forced to assimilate better into American society to survive, his accent obviously following this assimilation, as it was quiet subtle.

If Alexander hadn't mentioned before that he'd grown up speaking three languages, Lafayette might not have noticed that he'd had an accent.

"Yeah, I am too. I mean, I don't blame you. I've been difficult to get a hold of. I don't have a phone."

James grinned then, shaking his head and scratching the side of his nose, bemused.

"You have an American accent, it's weird."

Alexander shrugged and glanced at Lafayette next to him, his face considerably more relaxed than it had been merely a minute prior.

"You have a British one, that's way stranger than mine."

James smiled slightly and titled his head, watching Alexander curiously, with possibly even a trace of pride in his expression.

"Your English has gotten really good. Martha sent me a picture of that thing you wrote, it was... It was— I mean, it was horrible," he admitted, wincing slightly, "but it was beautifully written."

Alexander looked down at his lap and coughed awkwardly, shrugging and unnecessarily adjusting the cannula at his nose, which seemed to have become a habit in the past few days.

"Thanks. My Spanish and French have gotten rusty though, I don't use them as much now. Well, with Lafayette."

James frowned a little and tilted his head again. It wasn't a habit he'd had when they'd lived in Nevis, maybe he'd picked it up form a friend. Some people did that sort of thing.

"Lafayette, he's my foster-brother. He's actually here."

Alexander held the iPad slightly further away from his face and the French teenager came into view, smiling broadly and holding his hand up in a wave.

"Hey, I'm Laf."

James smiled politely and nodded, raising his hand in amiable greeting. He made eye contact with Alexander again and furrowed his brow slightly.

"¿Es lindo? ¿Te tratan bien?"

 _He's nice? They treat you well?_

Alexander nodded quickly and smiled at Lafayette, who wore an expression of polite bemusement.

"Sí, Sí, son buenas personas. Lafayette es genial, es amable."

 _Yeah, yeah they're good people. Lafayette is great, he's kind._

James nodded and Lafayette watched Alex, his face screwed up in concentration, evidently having picked up on his name being said in the conversation.

Alexander fell silent then, picking at a now bleeding hangnail and biting his lip. James was silent too, either thinking of what to talk about next or having nothing to say to his brother.

"Me prometiste que no volverías a hacer esto."

 _You promised me you wouldn't do this again._

James' face was more serious now, and though Lafayette did not understand Spanish, through Alexander's reaction and the tone in which his brother had spoken, he could guess what might have been said.

Alexander lowered his head, gazing intently at his fingers and biting the inside of his cheek hard, feeling his eyes prickle.

"Lo siento, lo siento. No puede evitarlo. No sé lo que quería, Lo—"

 _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I couldn't help it. I don't know what I wanted. I'm_ —

He broke off and took his face in his hands, taking deep, sharp breaths and falling silent. James watched his brother anxiously, his stomach twisting in concern and his arms itching to embrace Alexander.

"Està bien. No estoy enojado, me siento cupable. No pude ayudar."

 _It's okay. I'm not I angry, I feel guilty. I couldn't help._

Alexander shook his head, his face still held in his hands.

"Vives en Londres. No podrías haber hecho nada."

 _You live in London, you couldn't have done anything._

James sighed and shrugged, pulling a blanket from off camera next to him and draping it over his shoulders.

"Supongo... Maybe we should speak English now, for Lafayette."

 _I suppose so._

Alexander wiped at his eyes, which were shining slightly, hurriedly with the palms of his hands and nodded, his mouth twitching into a self-depreciative smile.

"Sorry, yeah. I should introduce you guys properly."

He let Lafayette move closer and held the camera as far from him as he could, allowing his foster-brother to be shown wholly in the frame.

"Yeah, so Lafayette's lived with Martha and George for nearly five years. He's from Paris but his English is really good."

Lafayette smiled and squeezed his foster brother's hand, the slight nervousness he'd felt about meeting a member of Alexander's biological family had died away.

"What about your family, the Devrons, right?"

James nodded, his smile growing slightly and his posture loosening. This subject was much easier than the one they'd just discussed.

"Yeah. We're all doing good, I'm in my first year here at UCL. Economics and Business. Liking it so far."

Alexander smiled and leant back against the headboard of his bed, clearly also more comfortable with the course of conversation.

"Virginia is good too. Can't say I don't miss New York. I'd like to go back, under better circumstances, you know."

James frowned slightly, his eyes narrowing in confusion. This prompted Lafayette to wonder exactly how much Alexander had told his brother about his previous foster families, whether James knew about all that Pace had done, or the Johnsons, or the Harveys— was it?

"I thought you liked New York."

Alexander backtracked quickly however, laughing nervously and looking at the corner of the screen, rather than his brother's face.

"I do, I do, you know, I just miss Katherine. Loads of foster homes, shitty state schools..."

James looked as though he wanted to persue the subject, his mouth opening a fraction, perhaps to say something. Then, he seemed to change his mind; all in the space of about a second. Instead, he pulled at a loose thread of the blanket and changed the subject.

"How long have you been in hospital?"

"Uh, like five days, but I've only been awake for two."

James nodded, his eyes were still focused on where his hands pulled at the loose thread. Then, he looked up at his brother

A flash of colour and static moved across the screen, but there was no mistaking or missing the shine in James' eyes.

"Estoy muy contento de que estés bien. Realmente te extraño."

 _I'm really glad you're okay. I really miss you._

Alexander smiled, wishing that James was there for him to embrace. Alex was the sort of person who liked hugs, naturally. Over the last few years he'd learnt to fear people touching or coming too near him, but in the arms of those he trusted, he didn't feel fearful, or agitated, just safe.

"I do too. I think we should try to meet up one day. Con suerte un día pronto."

 _Hopefully one day soon._

James nodded vigorously and smiled, dropping the corner of the blanket he held.

"Vamos a hacer que suceda."

 _Let's make that happen._

Lafayette was following the conversation ardently, moving his eyes back and forth between them like he was watching a tennis rally. Alexander though the constant, irregular lapses from English to Spanish were enough to throw anyone off. Especially if neither of the aforementioned languages were the listener's first.

Alexander shot him a glance, taking in his increasingly desperate expression and at once feeling guilty for not paying more mind to the French teen.

"Sorry, Laf. English or French from now... Sorry."

The teenager grinned awkwardly and shrugged, "If you want to speak Spanish, that's okay. This is your time."

James shook his head, shifting and crossing his legs beneath him. He didn't know Lafayette, but if he was Alexander's friend and had earned that boy's trust, he must be a pretty good guy.

"Its cool. Old habits die hard, eh? I'm sure you understand"

Lafayette smiled and inclined his head, watching Alexander. The teenager's eyes were on Lafayette while he was speaking, but every few seconds they'd flit back to the screen. Where James was, as though trying to make sure he was still there, that he hadn't left.

Alexander couldn't seem to believe James was actually there, he almost wanted to pinch himself, to make sure he wasn't dreaming.

"Have you... Have you heard from... Uh... Our father at all?"

Alexander asked the question slowly, tentatively. His eyes were lowered to his hands in fear, though when he had finished speaking, they flitted back up momentarily to watch his brother's expression.

James looked away and shrugged, his jaw tight.

He bit his lip hard with a sharp, white incisor and sighed. Lafayette felt as though he was encroaching upon a discussion he should not be a part of. Gently, he touched Alexander's arm, prompting the boy to break his gaze off James and turn to him instead.

"I- I... Si vous voulez l'intimité je vais partir."

 _If you would like privacy, I will leave_

Alexander hesitated slightly, torn. Not between what he wanted and being polite as before, but between opening up something painful to his friend or keeping it between himself and his brother.

"Je ne veux pas m'imposer si tu n'es pas confortable..."

 _I wouldn't want to intrude if you're not comfortable._

Alexander glanced at James, who looked at his lap and spoke in rapid Spanish, a few short words.

"Me sentiría más cómodo si se fuera."

 _I would feel more comfortable if he left._

Alexander's eyes softened from his previously ambivalent expression and he nodded at Lafayette.

"Désolé. Je vais t'appeler bientôt."

 _Sorry. I'll call for you soon._

Lafayette nodded and stood up from where he was perched on the chair, smiling kindly one last time to Alex before leaving the room.

"Our father... I don't know much, Alex. I called the man he worked for a few years ago, I found the company's number online, they said he didn't leave any details with them apart from that he was going back to Puerto Rico."

Alexander frowned and bit down hard on his cheek, his expression was irritated.

"You bothered to call about him?"

James furrowed his eyebrows and responded back with equal reproach, folding his arms.

"You bothered to ask me about him."

Alex sucked his teeth and said nothing, looking away from the screen and towards the large window to his left. James continued then, his tone weary.

"Our grandparents, his parents, died a few years ago, so if he was living off them he's either still there now or he went to the States. He never seemed super tied to Puerto Rico, I can't imagine he'd stay if he didn't have to."

Alexander huffed and folded his own arms reticently. He blew a stray strand of hair from out of his eyes and itched where the hair had fluttered against his nose.

"Je m'en fiche. He could be in Timbuktu for all the fucks I give about him."

James rolled his eyes and raised one eyebrow, a trait Alex hadn't inherited. He was glad, he thought it was from their father.

"Don't act like you're not at least curious as to what he's up to now."

Alexander sucked his teeth again and threw his hands up in exasperation, fixing James with an incredulous stare.

"That man treated us like shit for two whole years before he did us a favour and fucked off. Did he think to send any money back to support us? No. Did he ever even call? No. Did he ever regret leaving? Probably fucking not."

James dragged his teeth across his lip and shook his head, his expression stoic.

"You swear too much. Anyway, whatever you say, blood matters. I don't say I even forgive him, but knowing where he is and why he left would give me some closure."

Alex took a deep breath, repressing the urge to raise his voice and let the irritability that had been bubbling so close to the surface lately, boil over the top. He wasn't completely successful.

"Yeah, closure. That's what we need." He tipped his head sarcastically and scoffed, his fingers clenching into subconscious fists.

"Hmm, yeah, that's what mom needed. Not food, not money. Not medicine when we were both fucking dying, no. _Closure_."

James sighed and unfolded his arms, pulling the blanket tighter around himself and shaking his head, aggravatingly, again.

"Maybe you don't remember, Alex. But I do. Mom needed something from him, _anything_. It would have helped."

Alexander narrowed his eyes and sat up in his bed, his voice came out hissed and low.

"I remember it fine, James. I remember being hungry and I remember there being leaks in the roof when it rained. I remember it being his fault, and I don't want anything to do with him."

James shrugged and looked away, folding his arms.

"I just... He could be dead and we wouldn't even know. He could be in prison or... I just... I want to know."

Alex unfolded his arms and tilted his face upwards slightly, as though trying to stop tears falling down his cheeks. This, evidently, didn't work so instead he hid his face in his hands and shook his head vigorously.

"No! James! Has he ever come looking for us? I could have died! Twice! I could be dead right now, and would he know? Would he care? No!"

Alexander's voice broke then and a gasp caught in his throat, sending him into a violent coughing fit, his throat burning and his head felt as though it was stuffed with cotton wool, thick and hot and scratchy. He felt pathetic, weak, stupid.

James cursed under his breath and shook his head quickly, watching his brother in fear and he tried to gather himself.

"Alex, mierda, no, come on. Don't say that kinda stuff, let's not argue," he paused as Alexander coughed again and bit his lip tentatively, "are you... you okay?"

Alexander nodded and wiped hurriedly at his eyes. Whether the tears there were due to his coughing fit or some other emotion, James wasn't sure. Alex looked back up at his brother then, a weak grin plastered across his face.

"Just like old times, ey? Sorry I'm such a fucking mess... It's probably all these meds they've put me on."

James laughed and watched Alexander fondly for a moment, then shook his head slowly.

"You swear a lot. Bad habit to get into."

Alex shrugged and played with his bandages again, off the side of the screen however, so he didn't draw James attention to them.

"Do kids in London not swear then?"

James grinned and shrugged, glancing towards the door of the room he was in.

"My roommate, Cyril, he does. _A lot_. Maybe he'll be back soon. I don't know, he was going to get drinks with someone."

So he was in his dorm room then. Alex guessed it was alright, for student accommodation, albeit a little bare. Though, James hadn't had time to move in properly yet. He'd been there for just over a month.

"Speaking of, are you dating at all? Got a girlfriend? Boyfriend...?"

James coughed awkwardly and shook his head, running a hand through his hair sheepishly.

Alex supposed it was normal enough for siblings to talk about this stuff, but he'd never really had that opportunity with James. He'd had been about fifteen when he'd left for England, he'd never shown any persuasion towards romance of any sort before that, and Alex had only been about twelve.

They'd missed the time frame in which that sort of stuff happens for the first time, that made things awkward now.

"Nah, no girlfriend. As for boys, I don't really swing that way."

Alexander nodded, falling silent and clenching his toes tightly, his throat constricted and dry. Perhaps it hadn't been wise to ask, he was sure he was going to get the same question now.

"Uh... You're nearly sixteen. What about you?"

Alexander attempted to deflect the question with another cough, but James raised one eyebrow incredulously, not buying his distractions. He broke off lamely and shrugged.

"I uhh... There's someone... I guess."

James cracked a grin and tilted his head curiously, sitting up a little straighter.

"What's her name?"

Fuck. Alexander clenched his toes a little tighter under the blankets and laughed nervously. He'd just have to bite this bullet.

"John."

James' eyes widened and his mouth formed a small circle of surprise, evidently knocked a little speechless.

"So you're gay?"

Alexander shook his head, feeling his nails dig into the skin of his palms. It was a bad habit; he was going to have scars there one day.

"No. I'm bi. Swing both ways, fucking newton's cradle, if you catch my drift..."

James nodded slowly, looking away and fiddling with the blanket again.

"That's chill. I have some friends that are bisexual too. And you really _do_ swear too much."

Alexander sighed in relief and grinned, holding a hand up to his forehead and laughing breathily.

"Thank God. Didn't know what to expect."

James smiled and held up a hand, waving it dismissively.

"I'm cool with that stuff. London's a progressive city. Mum and dad are too."

Alexander nodded and grinned again, he felt as though a huge weight that had been sitting on his chest had been lifted.

"Do your foster parents know? What would they do if they found out?"

James suddenly seemed concerned, scared, even. Alexander supposed he had reason. Virginia as a state didn't have the greatest track record for being progressive.

In fact, if Alexander's extensive knowledge on legislative history was correct, and he was sure that it was, homosexuality had been illegal in Virginia up until 2003.

"They don't know, no. But Lafayette is like me, bisexual, and they know about him. I'm sure they'd be cool about it."

James hummed in approval and nodded, opening his mouth to say something but being cut off.

There was sound of a door opening in the background and a man's voice called out in greeting through the room.

James turned around to face the source of the noise; a tall, almost gangly looking young adult with a mop of dark, curly hair and large, circular glasses. He looked a bit, to Alex, like a hipster Harry Potter.

"Hey, I'm FaceTiming Alex. Wanna say hi?"

Alexander shrank back a little and forced on his face a polite smile, desperately pushing some hair behind his ears and pulling the blankets of his bed further around him so his hospital gown was covered.

The teenager, Cyril, moved towards James and flopped down next to him on the bed, peering close at the screen and watching Alex intently, as though searching him for something. Alexander shot James a confused glance, prompting the older boy to laugh and shrug.

"He always does this when he meets new people. And when he's drunk."

Cyril rolled his eyes and pushed James playfully, breaking his disconcerting stare and grinning.

"You two look alike. But different noses. James showed me a photo of you, but you're older now."

Alexander smiled awkwardly and nodded, fiddling with his bandage again.

"The one in central park, right?"

James nodded and Cyril grinned at him, his cheeks were slightly red in a way that suggested he had been drinking, and Alexander was sure that if he was in the room with James, they might be able to smell the alcohol off him.

"What are you studying, Cyril?"

Cyril grinned and withdrew a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, taking one between his lips and smiling.

"You have an American accent— James, you have a light?"

James nodded and monetarily fell out of view, stretching towards his left and returning a second later with a dark blue lighter.

"I'm doing a major-minor course, Politics and Mandarin."

Alexander raised his eyebrows, his eyes widening slightly.

"That's cool, difficult though."

Cyril shrugged and stood up, moving off camera and towards what Alexander hoped was a balcony or window. Smoking indoors was pretty disgusting, also probably against flat regulations.

"Do you smoke?"

Alexander didn't know if he really cared whether James did or not. He knew it was bad for a person's health but then again, so was cutting yourself and overdosing. He wasn't exactly one to talk.

"Nah," James grinned and rubbed the shaved side of his head again, sheepish looking, "I just facilitate Cyril."

Alexander grinned and from somewhere off camera, to the left of James, Cyril's voice called out, ever so slightly slurred.

"You're the worst friend!"

James laughed and shrugged, his eyes alight with mirth. His conversation with Cyril was so easy, so natural. It reminded Alexander of how John and Lafayette interacted.

In fact, Alexander felt better than he had all day. Well, perhaps not better than when he had kissed John, but he thought this at the very least drew even.

"Parece... excéntrico."

 _He seems... eccentric._

James chuckled and shrugged, throwing a fond glance in the direction of his rather inebriated friend.

"El está borracho."

 _He's drunk._

They lapsed into silence then, though it wasn't an uncomfortable one. Both boys surveyed each other for a few moments, revelling in the sight of the brother they hadn't seen in over two years.

Alexander, finally, felt it appropriate to break the silence.

"Martha and George said they might want to meet you. What do you think?"

James hummed his approval and nodded, then threw a glance in the vicinity of the window, where Cyril was evidently stood, still smoking.

"You nearly finished? I might meet my brother's foster parents so maybe you should piss off downstairs for tonight."

Cyril made a mock offended noise from the direction of the window and Alexander heard his stumbling, irregularly falling footsteps draw closer. The teenager walked past James and withdrew a cable knit jumper from the wardrobe behind them, pulling it over his head and shaking out his dark curls haphazardly.

He grabbed a set of keys from on top of the dresser and tossed them in the air, only to catch them with a fumbling hand.

"See! Not that drunk."

This cigarette still hung lazily from between his lips, half-smoked and glowing bright gold at its tip.

"Please, I'm surprised that cigarette hasn't made you go up in flames. Someone should stick a flammable sign on you."

Cyril laughed and hopped a few steps over to where James sat. He leant down closer to him and exhaled a large puff of smoke into his face, laughing as his friend screwed up his face and coughed violently. James waved away the smoke, irritated, and flipped his friend off.

"Night, asshole."

Cyril raised a mock flirtatious eyebrow and returned the sentiment.

"Night, asshole."

With that, he stumbled from the room.

Alexander let out a low whistle and watched the spot where Cyril had disappeared from a moment prior.

"Now I know why London's known for its drinking."

James smiled and shrugged off the blanket from around his shoulders, standing up with the iPad and walking in the direction Cyril had been smoking. He sucked his teeth angrily and rolled his eyes.

"He didn't close the window and it's like 0 degrees out."

Alexander twitched his lips into a smile and furrowed his brow.

"What's that in Fahrenheit? You've become way too British."

James grinned and reached a bare, tanned arm out to grasp the handle of the window, swinging it quickly shut and retreating back to the warmth of his bed.

"Like 31-ish degrees."

He laughed as Alexander winced, shuddering, and nodded his agreement.

"I know, it gets hella cold, but I like it here. Really diverse, feels like home. I haven't met any Nevisians but a fair few people from the Caribbean."

Alexander sighed, it contained a mixture of nostalgia and sadness.

"There were loads of Latino people in New York, loads of people from the Caribbean too. Here I only know John— He's Puerto Rican."

James grinned, nodding and smoothing back the hair that had fallen into his face.

"Now, your foster parents, what are they like?"

Alexander smiled and James took in his expression fondly, glad that Alexander had evidently been placed somewhere he had the opportunity to be happy. Or... At least had the opportunity to recover and be happy one day.

"Martha is... Martha's really kind. She makes you feel comfortable, you know? She's funny and smart and... She reminds me a lot of mom. The way she gives hugs so easily."

James bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, not upset, only slightly overcome. He grinned, his eyes shining bright and teary.

"And George?"

Alexander frowned slightly then and the warm, excited look in his eyes dimmed somewhat, replaced with a slight sense of agitation.

"George is... He's really kind too. He's smart, he loves his family. Just... We had this big argument last week, before everything happened. I don't know if things will be the same."

James leant back on his hands and frowned, his dark brows knitting together.

"Why did you argue?"

Alex laughed in a self-depreciative sort of way, a last-ditch attempt at adding some humour to the situation. It didn't really work.

"I got this offer to move up to eleventh grade glasses. George didn't think it was a good idea."

James tilted his head, surveying his younger brother in interest.

"Why not?"

Alexander sucked his teeth and grimaced, wringing his hands and lowering his head. James raised an eyebrow sternly and leant forward.

"Alex..."

Alexander sighed and ran a hand through his hair. It needed a wash. He made a mental note to ask Marian about that. God, he really just wanted a long, hot shower.

"Yeah... You know how I make bad decisions sometimes... This was one of those times."

James said nothing, not wanting to encourage any change in subject, watching Alex intently.

"I... George and Martha were worried about me I guess. I hadn't slept in a few days, eaten in a few more. They were right... I suppose, but I was tired and pissed of. I kinda just lost it."

James sighed, though in opposition to the weary and disappointed tone Alexander had expected him to take, he seemed instead rather sympathetic.

"Let's not... Let's leave that for another time. I want you to meet Martha and George."

* * *

His seat was empty again. It was the fourth day he hadn't been in. It got more disconcerting each time, to look over and expect to see his dark head bent low over a book or his face gazing towards the window, and then instead; nothing.

Eliza listened fervently for Alexander's name in the roll call, but the same thing always happened.

The teacher skipped from Halson to Harrison. Alexander's name was inexplicably left out, as though he had been erased from everyone's memories.

It happened in every class she shared with Alexander. His name was skipped, the teacher said nothing and no one seemed to notice.

Eliza was starting to worry now. The first day she'd merely been disappointed, she had been waiting to tell Alex about the book she'd just borrowed from the library, but his desk had been empty. She hadn't though much of it, she hadn't even noticed when the teacher had skipped his name.

But then Lafayette, John and Hercules had been away too. They were all friends, the four of them, their names all missing from roll call too. Keiran straight to Lopez, Laurens missed out.

Eliza tried to recall the last time she'd seen Alexander, the last time they'd spoken. It had probably been on Thursday last week, the day he'd apparently collapsed in maths class.

Eliza had heard about it from a friend, that Alex had gotten up to do a question on the board and had fainted. His dad had arrived later to pick him up and Lafayette had gone with him.

She remembered a few days before that, in English class, Alexander had stood up to leave when the bell rang and looked, for a moment, dizzy; like he might faint. He'd said he'd just stood up to fast, that he was fine. Eliza had believed him and brushed it off, but now, that was harder.

She'd noticed before that he was skinny, short too, compared to other the boys in their year.

She'd noticed when he'd started losing more weight, when, at lunch time, she'd see him retreating into the library to hide in his huge hoodie and work.

She'd noticed too when the circles under his eyes got a little darker. It was hard to recall a time when he hadn't been yawning or sleepy looking.

It would have been difficult not to spot these things, Alex thought hiding his face under curtains of hair and hoods disguised them, but they only really exemplified his rather ill-looking state.

But she hadn't said anything.

Eliza was Alex's friend, yes, but they were friends in the sense that they chatted about books and TV and teachers.

They didn't talk about anything deeper than what lay on a very surface level. She hasn't felt like she'd had the moral authority, if that made sense. She had though Lafayette or John would have noticed, would have helped him.

She didn't think Alexander would appreciate her calling him out on his appearance.

But now... Now, she regretted this, now she hated this state of expectancy, of not knowing. If Alexander hadn't been in for days, and the last she'd heard of him was that he'd collapsed, well, it didn't take a genius to put two and two together and infer that he was ill.

Obviously, this did nothing to mollify her anxiety.

So Eliza resolved to ask the teacher. It was afternoon homeroom, Mr. Werner had just walked in through the door and set his plastic thermos onto the desk.

Any second now, he would start the roll call. He did the same thing as every day, Alex's name was missed out and the teacher didn't even blink, just continued on until the Z names.

The bell rang and they were dismissed, students crowding in packs towards the door, chatting, laughing, pushing and shoving past each other.

Eliza hung behind. Mr. Werner looked up as she approached his desk, smiling warmly at her. He taught German, which she took, Eliza had been one of the few tenth graders not to choose French or Spanish instead.

She spoke Dutch, so it seemed quite sensible to take German. They were similar enough.

"Eliza, hey! How's that homework coming? Did you want to ask something about it?"

She asked and shook her head, hoisting her bag a little tighter over her shoulders and pushing some hair behind her ear.

"No, no, the essay's fine. I wanted to ask about Alex?"

Mr. Werner's smile faded a little and he tipped his head, a little confused.

"What about Alexander?"

Eliza bit her lip and took in a deep breath. If her teacher did know where he was, and could tell her, she wanted to brace herself a little.

"Well... You missed his name on the roll call— you have every day this week and he's not been in."

Mr. Werner looked back down at the slip before him and held it out to her, pointing at Alexander's name.

"His name's been crossed off by the office before it got to me, every day this week. I don't know where he is, I assume he's sick. Maybe his parents phoned the school?"

Eliza frowned, peering closer at where Alex's name had been crossed out in red pen, a thick line scrawled haphazardly over the box the tick should have gone.

"I can't say I know where he is, sorry Eliza."

She shook her head, looking up at Mr. Werner with a smile.

"Das ist okay. Thanks, I'll call around to his place sometime."

 _That's okay_

Mr. Werner nodded, smiling and picking up his thermos. Eliza inclined her head and moved towards the door, weaving through chairs and tables as she went.

"Viel glück mit diesen hausaufgaben!"

 _Good luck with that homework!_

"Danke Herr Werner!"

 _Thanks Mr. Werner!_

Eliza pushed through the door and out into the corridor, pushing through crowds of students towards the exit. She had a plan now, she had a place to be. She was going to find Alex.

* * *

James thought Martha and George seemed alright. Better than alright, actually. They fit Alexander's descriptions well, from what he saw at least.

George was... economic with his words, but in the ten or so minutes they'd spoken, he'd complimented James on his choice of study, managed to get him talking comfortably about himself but also successfully pivot away from any potentially painful subjects about Alex, and had also kept Lafayette, Martha and Alex involved in the conversation too.

George seemed like a politician in multiple senses of the word, but not in an entirely bad way. James didn't generally trust politicians, but George seemed to regard this title as an after thought. James supposed he considered himself father and husband first.

Martha seemed amazing too. James thought that perhaps, given more time to know her, he might see the resemblance to their mother. She seemed very kind, but, like with mom, James could imagine that she was intelligent and confident too.

Cyril had, as James had so eloquently put it, 'pissed off downstairs', so James lay alone in the dark. Normally, the sound of Cyril texting at night or playing music too loudly through his earphones was annoying but now, James sort of missed it.

Seeing Alex had been great, it had filled the missing space in the life he'd just managed to piece together after the total collapse of his childhood. But it had raised so many questions too. Some, James wasn't exactly sure he wanted answered.

Why did Alexander never talk about New York beyond the few months he'd stayed with Katherine? Why was his arm bandaged? James had seen it, despite Alex's best efforts to tuck it under his blanket. Why did Alexander refuse to talk about his argument with George, despite the fact that it was clearly bothering him? If it was so obviously painful, than what had happened?

James flipped onto his stomach and groaned into his pillow, the suffocating warmth from the dorm heater seemed to wrap itself like an extra blanket around him.

The guys in the room near the boiler had turned it up to like thirty, or something crazy, and probably locked the boiler room door. It was infuriating, he'd have to talk to admin about it some time. Damn Brits and their damn inability to withstand the cold.

He kicked the covers off himself angrily and lay across his bed, pressing his face into the warmth of his pillow.

He could hear music thumping somewhere, distant across the building through the layers of plaster and brick and insulation. The steady beat lulled James to sleep, bringing him away from loud music, sweltering heat and worries about Alexander.


	33. Before The Washingtons

_**Okay you guys! This is big! Get a drink, find a comfortable position, play some tunes, I've written an eighteen thousand word chapter about Alexander's first ever foster home. Tbh, 13 year old Alex is freaking adorable. This is taking a break from the rest of the story but the next chapter will be back on track. This is my Christmas present to you guys.**_

 _ **There are some OC's in this, but Ned is taken from history. He was Hamilton's childhood friend and possibly his brother. Though in this, they're just friends. There's some Spanish and French too, some isn't translated just because it wasn't super necessary to. Just, 'Au clair de la lune' means in the moonlight, yeah?**_

 _ **Trigger Warnings: Parental death, panic attacks, child abuse, starvation, very **__**brief mention of self harm, bullying/ fighting, anxiety, depression, overdosing, swearing.**_

 ** _Merry Christmas!_**

His duffel bag is heavy, weighed down by the books he couldn't bring himself to leave behind. The ones that didn't sustain too much water damage, or just float away like bodies downstream.

Mrs. Newson's heels click against the wood of the stairs, he watches them as he walks behind her, the under-soles are a dark, murky burgundy.

They approach the landing, some boys stick their faces cautiously out from behind doors and some stand on the thresholds of their own rooms, most are his age, some a little older. All though, are hard looking, tense and hollow-cheeked.

"There are around two dozen boys here, twelve sleep in this corridor, twelve in the next. We room two at a time, so you'll be sharing. This won't be a problem, I hope."

Mrs. Newson's last words, they weren't a question. Alexander isn't going to protest this.

His room is right at the end of the corridor. In the doorway, a tall, pale boy with wiry arms and conker brown hair stands. His arms are folded, he wears jeans and a tattered looking brown sweater.

"This is Ned Stevens. He's fourteen, been here five months. Drop your stuff, Alexander."

Alex hastens to obey, stepping past Ned quickly, pressing himself up against the wall so he doesn't hit the boy and dropping his bag at the foot of the bunk bed.

"Ned, if I hear of any bad behaviour, any fights, you'll both be eating leftovers for a week. And if he starts anything, come straight to me."

Alex shifts uncomfortably at these words, his eyes cast down on the floor. Ned moves slightly backwards and exhales a quiet, "yes, ma'am."

Mrs. Newson nods once and turns around, clicking back down the corridor and retreating down the stairs.

Instantly, every boy in the corridor turns to him. They scramble over each other, vying to come close to him, the taller ones crane their necks to watch him curiously.

"Where have you come from?"

"Do you have any food?"

"How old are you?"

"Is this your first home?"

"Are your parents dead?"

"Why is your hair so long?"

Alex starts somewhat, stepping away from the noises, nearly tripping backwards over his duffel bag and reflexively shoving his hands in his pockets, squeezing the fabric hard.

"I... I just turned thirteen."

One boy, he's maybe fourteen or so with sandy blond, elastic hair, looks him up and down in vague distaste, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

"You have an accent. Where are you from? You don't look American."

Alexander shrugs and digs his hands further into his pockets, subconsciously taking another step backwards.

He's not learnt much about American culture, bar the fact that Americans don't like people like him, people that are from where he is. James told him that, maybe a year or two ago. He remembers asking James what he meant when he said 'people like them'.

James had waved his hand knowingly, as though he was extremely knowledgeable in such matters and said, "'people who eat ajilimójili or... have dark skin.'"

Alex remembers thinking that he wouldn't be very popular in the States, because everything his mom had cooked with ajícitos, he'd loved, and in the summer, his skin goes as dark as the smooth, brown stones that James taught him to skip at the beach.

"I'm from the... The Caribbean."

The boys regard him for a few moments when he says this. Some look a little distasteful, the older ones mostly, the younger ones look slightly awed and one boy, he stands a little taller than average, though he can't be the oldest, looks positively delighted. He has dark skin and a lithe sort of body, with teeth that gleam white against his complexion.

"You're- you're from the Caribbean? Where?"

Alex prays, hopes to God that this boy is from Nevis, even Saint Kitts. He's not seen him around before, doesn't recognise his face, but then again, he and his family were outsiders on the island. They weren't exactly accepted by everyone.

"Nevis."

The boy's smile fades and his looks at his feet, shrugs and pulls a face.

"Haiti."

Alex shrugs and puts his hands back in his pockets. Haiti, it's pretty far from Nevis against the scale of the Caribbean. A bigger island, more people. Then the boy speaks again.

"Tu parles français?"

 _You speak French?_

"Ce n'est pas mon premier langue, alors, c'est compliqué... Mais je le parle."

 _Uhh, It's not my first language, well, it's complicated, but I speak it._

The Haitian boy looks delighted, Alexander is about to ask for his name when another boy stood in front of him pushes him aside, shoving to get closer to Alex. This boy is maybe fifteen or sixteen, he's the tallest of the lot and teenage skinny, with long limbs and a defined Adam's apple.

"Do you have any food?"

Alexander steps back a little and shakes his head, slightly nervous. He's never really trusted boys his own age, or ones a little older than him. In middle school on Nevis, they'd always push him around the place.

"No... No, I don't."

The taller boy frowns and jabs a finger at his chest, backing him a little closer to the wall and staring at him with clear, grey eyes.

"Listen, there's a system around here about food. You share any extra you get. It doesn't matter if it's a candy bar from Dev or an orange. Oldest gets first dibs, you get what's left."

Alexander frowns, a million thoughts all race through his brain at once. Voicing them all seems unwise and time-consuming, so he asks his most pressing ones.

"Who's Dev?"

The older boy sighs and itches at a spot below his lip.

"Caretaker. Gives us food sometimes."

Alex nods, still frowning.

"Doesn't seem very fair though, what about the younger kids? What if—"

The boy takes a handful of his shirt and pulls him forward so that they're looking at each other eye to eye. Alexander yelps somewhat and stumbles, nearly losing his balance.

"That's the system. It ain't gonna change."

Alexander gulps, says nothing.

"Keep talking shit like that, I'll make sure you don't get any food here for a week. All of us is hungry enough as it is, no one cares if some new kid doesn't get meals."

Alexander bites back the urge to correct the boy's grammar. His English is patchy, to say the least, but even he knows it's 'all of us are'.

The older boy lets him go and everyone retreats back to their rooms, silent. Ned looks him up and down, indifferent. At least he's not pinning Alexander to a wall, but he's not exactly welcoming him either. Well, it's not like Alex expected a party anyway.

"Dinner will probably be ready in about half an hour. It's Sunday so we just do what we like. As long as we're quiet and stay out of Mrs. Newson's way, we're fine."

Alexander nods, a little taken aback by the chaos of the last few moments.

"Who was that? The tall one?"

Ned looks up from where he's rearranging a few meagre possessions on the bedside table. There's only one and he's got all his stuff out on it. Where will Alex put all his books?

"That was Jason. He'll be sixteen soon."

Alexander nods, moving towards his bag, beginning to unpack. He can only take out some of his clothes and all his books have to remain in the duffel, the room's too small for both his and Ned's things.

He decides that there are more pressing matters to deal with than space and pulls off his coat. It's at least three sizes too big. His mom says—said that he'd grow into it, he hopes she was right. If he does he'll grow to be about six feet tall.

He doesn't want to think about his mom any longer though, he'd much rather find something else to occupy his thoughts. Unfortunately, there's not much in this place that seems to inspire much interest in him and the books in his bag are so well read, the edges of the pages are slightly worn where he's thumbed through them.

But he takes one out anyway and opens it to the most recent page, stroking the paper sadly where it's creased and stained with dirty water. Ned watches him curiously for a moment before starting towards the door.

He opens it, his footsteps retreat down the hall and then Alex hears his voice greet someone further down the corridor.

Finally, he is alone.

* * *

It's only on the third night that he has his first dream. He hates them, he positively despises these dreams. Ever since the hurricane, they've generally taken on that sort of theme. It's always the same. He'll hear the sound of debris; corrugated iron, tree bark, branches, hitting the roof, breaking a downstairs window.

Then he'll see the body of an old man floating face down on what used to be the street outside, puffy with decay, purple lips and wild hair.

The dream sometimes culminates there, but if that's not enough to wake him in a cold sweat, he'll see police cars swarming the local train station that ran twice daily across the island. He might, if he's really lucky, see the body bag they wheeled out twenty minutes later. The one his cousin's pieces were in.

He doesn't say body, that implies a whole of something. Something singular.

Well, that second night, that's exactly what happens. He gets _really_ lucky.

He wakes up screaming.

The back of his neck is damp, his hair sticks to his skin there like paper mâche. He hears the yell reverberate eerily through the house and he jerks upwards, his forehead smacking hard against the underside of the bunk bed.

He yells out again at the sudden, sharp pain and hears Ned groan above him.

"Alex, what the fuck?"

He doesn't respond, just hisses in pain and sees stars, his world flashing momentarily white.

Ned's head appears over the side of the bed, looking down on him blearily through the half-light. More than half of his expression is angry, but there's a small mixture of concern and confusion there too.

It's probably more instinctive concern than reactive though, he doesn't actually know Alex or give a fuck about him.

Then, there are footsteps hurrying along the hallway outside and the door is swung open violently. Above him, Ned retreats quickly back under his covers and feigns sleep.

Mrs. Newson stands in the doorway, her expression livid.

Alexander reels and he clutches his head in agony, his breathing short. He doesn't know what's going to happen now, he's only ever dreamt like this in front of people at his cousin's place and once in the back of a foster worker's van. Normally, he takes care of this stuff himself. Normally, when this happens, he just does his best to not have a panic attack and try to sleep.

Mrs. Newson is clad in her pyjamas and a robe is pulled haphazardly around her. She strides over to where he's lying, struggling to breathe, and pulls him roughly to his feet by his wrist.

"Downstairs. Now."

He hastens to obey her command, walking quickly behind her, one hand still clutching his forehead, wincing. He wonders if it's bleeding. It hurts enough to be.

She leads him into the boys', well, Alexander would call it a common room, but that would be unbelievably British. He'll say it's a sitting room.

So, she pushes him into the boys' sitting room. Alexander waits, his bare feet cold on the floorboards and his hands shaking despite his best efforts to still them.

"Can you explain what that was?"

Alex shifts back a little, his heart hammering. His stomach is doing that horrible thing where it feels like its floating, like he's in an elevator that's moving upwards at one hundred miles an hour.

"I—I just had a bad dream."

Mrs. Newson looks even angrier than she had thirty seconds ago when she was pushing him here. She places her hands on her hips and her eyes glitter furiously.

"Remind me again, how old are you?"

Alexander bites his lip and looks at his feet, feeling shame and guilt course through him. She _should_ be angry, he _shoul_ d feel ashamed. He's not a fucking baby.

"Thirteen."

Mrs. Newson nods in an imitation of understanding and then, quick as the flash of a whip, grabs his face with her thumb and forefinger, pressing down hard between his jawbones. He gasps at first but holds his breath, watching her.

"While you are here, this will not happen again. Do you understand me?"

Alexander can't speak, she's pressing down too hard on his face, so he nods slightly instead, a quick up and down. Any more movement would hurt his still throbbing head.

"I'm sorry, I didn't hear you, Alex."

She presses down a little harder and her face is the picture of malice. It's not pretty, to see someone young so angry. Mrs. Newson can't be older than thirty-five.

He lets out a garbled sort of noise, hoping she'll accept it as agreement and nods a little harder. Tears are stinging his eyes.

"Good, good. Now, it's three AM yeah? You're going to stand here until everyone else wakes up at seven, okay?"

Alexander's stomach drops and he steps back a little, the sudden urge to flee arising now that she's released his face.

"Listen, Alex. You're gonna stand in this corner until then. If you don't, if you sit down or move, it'll be worse for you."

Alex doesn't even have time to nod or protest before she's pushed him into the corner of the room, caging him in with her arms and looking down at him with a mocking sort of smile.

She lifts a carefully manicured finger to tilt his chin upwards so that they're looking at each other eye to eye and smiles.

"Shh, listen, it's okay. It's for your own good. Do you understand me?"

What can he do but nod?

She smiles one last time and leaves the room, her slippered footsteps padding softly over the floorboards. She switches out the last light in the hallway so that they are both drenched in dark, the sound of bedclothes whispers in his ear and then, a door closes.

He is utterly alone, in utter pitch.

Now, of course, Alex could sit down. He could sit and wait until just before seven and stand up before Mrs. Newson wakes up. But, if he does, he stands a huge chance of falling asleep there on the floor. He doesn't want to contemplate what Mrs. Newson might do if he disobeys her, if he explicitly goes against what she's asked of him.

But he is so, so tired.

He hadn't really noticed before how exhausted he's been these last few days, he's always comforted himself in the knowledge that he'll have a bed to sleep in come the end of the day.

Yet now, this same exhaustion is pressing down upon him like a boulder, as though he's freaking Sisyphus or something.

But he stands anyway, leaning his head against the wall and closing his eyes. His legs burn after what can only be around twenty minutes yet he knows he has another three and a half hours to go.

The sitting room is messy. Mrs. Newson will have them all clean it up in the morning, no doubt. But right now there are puzzle pieces scattered across the floor from where the younger kids were playing earlier and the cushions on the sofa have been knocked from their places, lying like fallen dominoes on the floor.

He wonders if tidying up the room will ease the anger Mrs. Newson feels at him. It might, though, he risks the other boys calling him a suck up. Anyway, Mrs. Newson told him not to move, so he's going to take this command at its most literal.

He starts losing track of time then. The curtains are thick, heavy ones and block out every inch of the night sky. He doesn't have a watch and he isn't sure if there is a clock in here. Besides, even if there was, it's too dark to see anything in great detail.

He's never fallen asleep standing up before, but now, he does just that. His head droops forward like a sodden newspaper, his chin tucked into his chest and his frame leant heavily against the wall.

It's not comfortable, it's hardly even bearable and he's not exactly asleep either, but he's too tired not to. He's hovering in the nebulous vicinity of sleep, but sometimes the scale tips, and he's brought back into consciousness.

After, well, he supposes it must have been four hours, he hears the first footsteps on the stairs outside. The door of the sitting room opens and the boy Jason shares a room with, Alex thinks his name is Michael, walks in.

He's half dressed in jeans and his pyjama shirt, his hair tousled with sleep and his feet bare. His eyes skip immediately to where Alexander stands in the corner, by now, weak at the knees.

Michael raises his eyebrows and walks towards the curtains, pulling them open with a flourish. Alexander hisses and flinches away as the light burns his eyes, but Michael pays him no mind, just flops down on the couch and crosses his legs.

"So you were the one who screamed last night?"

Alex nods dumbly, he's too tired for any words to form on his tongue, they melt like snowflakes whenever he tries.

"Sucks to be you. How long you been standing there?"

Alex holds up four fingers and Michael winces, leaning his head back into the sofa cushion and stretching. Alexander envies the sleep in the corners of his eyes, the drowsy stiffness in his joints, the curls that a good night's sleep have put in his hair.

He hears the sound of a door being opened and Mrs. Newson's heels click across the floorboards in the corridor. Alexander straightens up instinctively, pushing off the wall and lowering his eyes to his hands.

He senses her presence in the doorway and draws in a sharp breath, his stomach tight. Mrs. Newson's heels click towards him and he feels one of her hands touching his face again. He waits for a slap, or for her to squeeze hard at his face like she did last night, but she merely tilts his chin up, staring into his eyes shrewdly. She's all dressed and made up, eyeliner streaked dark under her lashes.

"Michael, was he standing up when you came in?"

Alexander resists the urge to close his eyes or look away, instead staring directly into Mrs. Newson's face.

"Yes, Mrs. Newson, he was."

She smiles and moves her hand from his chin, turning away from the exhausted boy and walking to the kitchen.

"Very good. You two, tidy the place up. You can get dressed then, Alex."

He takes a tentative step forward and instantly, his legs buckle. The only thing that keeps him from crashing completely to the floor is the wall, which he manages to grab at the last moment and steady himself with.

Michael laughs and throws a puzzle piece into the box, tutting slightly as Alexander tries to catch his breath.

He helps tidy up slowly, and one by one, the other boys trickle down. Jason raises an eyebrow at his evidently bedraggled appearance but says nothing, flopping back onto the couch and watching the younger kids and Alex tidy up.

Ned comes down a minute or so later. He makes a beeline from Alex, pushing through the waist height crowd of kids play fighting.

"You okay?"

Alexander shrugs and tosses a cushion at the sofa, it lands and someone straightens it out for him.

"How long did she make you stand?"

Alexander sighs and looks in distaste at a sticky patch on the floor, he thinks one of the kids spilt their juice or something. He doesn't question why Ned knows she made him stand. He can't be the first person Mrs. Newson's punished in this way.

He holds up four fingers and Ned blanches slightly, biting his lip and looking Alex up and down.

"Go get dressed, you look like shit."

If there's one thing he's going to have to become accustomed to here, it's being insulted and having to pay it no mind.

* * *

The next time it happens, because of course, he'll dream again, it's never only once, he doesn't scream.

Somehow, maybe it's because he has a cold, maybe it's because his throat is dry and scratchy, the yell that would normally force from his mouth gets stuck and he only lets out a harsh gasp.

He still, however, sits up suddenly and yet again, his head thunks hard into the underside of the bunk bed. Harder than before, and in the exact same, sore spot.

He touches the area with his hand, clutching his head in agony. He can feel a swollen lump there and when he draws his hand away, there's blood on his fingers.

He groans again into his fist and curses under his breath, biting down on the corner of his pillow.

His head throbs, it's all he can do to keep himself from whining out loud. Ned tolerates him better than Jason or Michael do, but he would certainly be annoyed if Alex woke him a second time.

Sleep doesn't come so easily after that, and when it does, he's not so sure whether it's bona fide sleep or injury-induced. There's every possibility he's hurt his head bad enough to make him lose consciousness.

He wakes up perhaps a little later than he might have usually, his throat burning and his lips dry. He feels ill, it could be that the cold he's refused to do anything about is getting worse. Ned is turned away from him, pulling on an old, tattered hoodie. They both have school today, though Ned's in the year above him. Alex doesn't particularly know or like many people in his class, he tends to keep to himself.

Ned turns around and his eyes fall upon Alex, they widen and he steps a little closer.

"What you do to your head?"

Alex sits up, his movements are cautious and he winced as a beam of light from the window hits his face.

"Woke up again, hit it."

Ned shrugs, already turning back to the chest of drawers to close them.

"At least you didn't wake anyone up."

Alexander makes a humming sound of agreement and gets up slowly, moving towards the drawers to pull out some jeans and a shirt.

Ned leaves then, the sound of breakfast being eaten downstairs is audible even up here and no one wants to miss out on any sort of meal.

Alexander now understands why the boys asked if he had food on his first day.

They don't get fed near enough here, and that's coming from him, the kid who's lived off a diet of tinned food and too-ripe fruit for the past three or four years. After his father left, meals went down in both quality and quantity.

Generally, they get two meals a day and sometimes, a snack after school. You have to eat what you're given, or someone else will for you. Usually, breakfast is toast, fruit and some juice, two days a week they get meat and Michael and Jason get coffee.

He dresses quickly and brushes his teeth in front of the bathroom mirror, vying for space with Sumon, a plucky, brown-skinned thirteen-year-old that gets in too much trouble with Mrs. Newson for breaking things. He's a little clumsy but Alex thinks he likes him, at least on a superficial level. He's fiercely protective of his little brother Amir, who's only five. He reminds him a little of James.

The breakfast table often resembles a war zone. The younger kids shove and fight each other for food, but the older ones have learnt more cunning, sly ways of getting more than their share. Micheal, especially, has a strange talent in persuasion. He often convinces the little ones to trade larger amounts for smaller ones, half a sausage for a slice of bacon or something of the like.

Mrs. Newson doesn't supervise the morning meals, if she did then there'd be a lot less fighting and thieving. Instead of her, that young one, Alex doesn't know his name, supervises.

He's no older than twenty-four, but he's got such a grandiose ego that he thinks he has the right to hit them. This wouldn't grate so much on their nerves, except that he expects them to just take it. Michael got in trouble once for pushing him. He'd called him a prick, said he wasn't so much older than he was. Alex doesn't like either Michael or Jason, but that moment had earned the former a little more respect in his eyes.

At least half of the food off his plate has been taken, and the portion was meagre anyway, but he sits and eats everything quickly and without complaint. Only Michael and Jason get coffee, and only twice a week, so he just drinks the too-watery juice and watches their steaming mugs enviously.

The young one, Alex is just going to call him that, despite the eleven years he has on Alex, is watching him from across the room with folded arms and half-lidded eyes. They're all still half asleep.

"Kid, what you do to your head?"

He looks up from his juice, everyone's eyes turn to him.

"Hit it against the bed."

The young one motions for him to stand up and Alex stuffs the last of his toast into his mouth, chewing the food hurriedly and wincing as it slides sharply down his throat. But he's not going to allow himself to go hungry. Well, hungrier.

He's led to Mrs. Newson's room and feels his hands twisting nervously in front of him. The young one knocks three times on the door before entering, pulling Alexander roughly inside by the fabric of his jumper.

Mrs. Newson is all made up, as usual, she doesn't do her make-up as nicely as his mother did, though. He remembers her showing him the way she'd mix lipstick colours together to create the perfect shade, he'd loved watching it. That was before he got old enough to realise boys weren't supposed to like that sort of thing.

"Hey, this kid's got some big cut. Just thought you should now."

Mrs. Newson puts down the paper she's holding and stands up, walking over to Alex and tilting his face up by his chin. He hates this habit of hers. It makes him feel like some sort of object, something to be inspected.

"Did you dream again?"

He closes his eyes, draws in a deep breath, nods and then speaks in a soft, breathy whisper. He's terrified.

"I didn't..." Fuck, he doesn't know the English word for _grito_. He substitutes it for something else instead, frustrated with himself. He should know this.

"I was quiet. I'm sorry."

The young one, Alex must learn his name, laughs from where he stands by the door.

"You have them well trained."

Mrs. Newson pays him no mind. She examines the cut on Alexander's head and leans closer over him, not touching the injury but looking at it closely.

"Well done. You've learnt. Peter, find some bandages."

Ah, so his name is Peter. Peter, then, walks from the room towards the kitchen. Alexander is unsure whether to follow or not.

"Go, then. You'll be late to school otherwise."

He hastens the room, walking quickly to the kitchen where Peter is pulling a first aid box from the cupboard. His forehead is bandaged quickly, so he looks a little like one of those soldiers from the pictures of World War One they see in History class.

But he's no soldier, just some stupid kid who had a nightmare. He does wish he were as brave as a one though. That might help him here.

* * *

He's been at this place for a month now and he's no more settled than he had been when he'd arrived. He misses James, he misses his mom, he misses his cousin, he misses his island.

Sometimes he'll be walking down the street, to school maybe, or shopping for Mrs. Newson, and he'll hear something. Maybe it will be a snatch of a Celia Cruz song or the smell of Arroz con dulce. Then all of a sudden, he'll want to cry.

It's all he can do to run back to the house, unpack the shopping and crawl under his duvet, hope no one disturbs him.

And then there's Mrs. Newson. She's hot and cold, he never knows whether she's going slap him or smile. He'd almost rather she hates him all the time than leave him guessing as to what mood she'll be in every given day. At least though, he's not the only boy to receive this treatment from her.

She's strict with all of them. She made Jason go without food for a day two weeks ago because got in a fight with that Edward kid, she slapped Ned last week because he talked back and Sumon is always getting his meals taken from him for making a mess or breaking things.

She doesn't hit the little ones at least, no boy younger than eleven gets it too bad from her, she just takes away their toys or tells them off. Alex supposes that experience in itself is terrifying enough.

Since he's started living here, he's dreamt about his past five times. Of these, he's woken Mrs. Newson up thrice.

Each time, she gets angrier. She screams at him, tells him he's worthless, tells him he's the only kid here to do this, that even five-year-old Amir causes less trouble than he does. He supposes she's right. He knows he's more trouble than he's worth.

The first time it happened, he merely had to stand for the rest of the night.

The next time, she makes sure he doesn't sleep in Ned's room for the next three nights. He stands instead, and when he can't stand, he crumples into a collapsed heap to the floor. Ned is always there in the mornings to help him to his feet before Mrs. Newson awakes though.

Alexander doesn't think Ned likes him very much, but he's saved him from the wrath of Mrs. Newson more than once. He almost trusts him now.

The third time he wakes up screaming, he's terrified. The fear squeezes around him like a fist the very instant his scream dies down, bouncing off the walls, soaking back into his body and making his very heart hum with anticipation.

He sits frozen in his bed, Ned can be heard swearing quietly above him, they both know what will happen now.

Mrs. Newson pulls him from his bed, not caring when his head whacks hard into the ladder that leads to where Ned sleeps. He's practically dragged downstairs and towards the kitchen.

The house is dark and quiet, though underneath doors he can see the faint slivers of light that suggest the people inside are awake. Of course they are, everyone wants to hear Mrs. Newson have a go at the new kid.

He doesn't know why she's pulled him to the kitchen though, and this only makes the knot in his stomach tighter, because normally he stands in the living room. This change in routine means that he has no idea what is going to happen now.

She grabs a fist full of his t-shirt, twists her wrist so the neckline is pulled tight enough to choke him and slaps him hard across the face with her free hand. The clap of her palm across his skin cuts through the air around them like a knife, he thinks the boys listening upstairs will be able to hear it. This is the first time an adult— no — _anyone_ has ever hit him like that, directly across the face, intentionally powerful, calculated, without regret, to hurt.

"You are thirteen years old!"

She yells this so loudly that he _knows_ the boys upstairs will be able to hear her. He knows he's woken them all up, and none of them are able to fall asleep so quickly as to miss this. Occupational hazard of being a foster kid; sleep never comes easy.

"I am sick of this! Can you not learn to keep your mouth shut?"

She shakes him slightly and he's straining to get away now, all sense that tells him to just take it is overrun by pure survival instinct.

She tugs a little more forcefully at his shirt so he's being choked even harder now. He can hear a ripping, straining noise and knows the seams on his shirt are splitting. It's a cheap one he fished from the lost and found bin at school, couldn't have been more than two or three dollars at target.

She opens the back door that leads to the small, dingy garden at the rear of the house. It's overgrown with weeds and shrubs, ivy has taken over the fence, weaving it's infiltrating arms through every crevice and nook in the garden. Rusty, broken plastic toys that foster kids of the past must have played with sit decaying by the far wall. Maybe they're from a time when this place was run by people who cared.

Mrs. Newson pushes him over the threshold and he trips over his feet, crashing onto the concrete outside and feeling his knee collide painfully with the rough ground.

It's freezing outside. It's barely March and he's not used to how cold New York gets, Nevis around now would be in the seventies, but here in New York, it gets no higher than thirty-three at night. The door slams behind him and he hears a key twisting in the lock.

Shit.

He stands up, shaking, unsteady, and runs back over towards the door, pulling frantically at the handle and scraping at the lock with his fingernails. Rust and dirt collect under them, this place is falling into disrepair.

"Please! Please! I'm sorry! I-I'll be quiet! I'll do better!"

He gets no response, merely the sound of a door closing and faint footsteps on hardwood floor. He lets out a choked sob of anguish and yells through the door one last time, banging his fists against the frosted glass desperately. His palms sting now, sharp and burning.

"Please!"

He slides down against the door, feeling tears swell and fall freely down his face. The adrenaline so sharp and abundant in his veins from moments ago is now speeding up his heart rate, his breathing too. He grasps a fistful of his own hair and pulls, hard. He knows the warning signs of a panic attack, knows that now, that's exactly what's happening to him.

His head thunks hard against the cold plastic of the back door and he starts to feel his breathing truly accelerate, the way it always does when he gets like this. He remembers the first time this happened, it was back when mom was still alive. He's always been a bit of a wimp. Mom had called it 'anxiety', but the boys at school had just said he was a pussy. It's kinda difficult to shake that mentality off.

He thinks the first time he had one of these panic attacks was in sixth grade, his first year in middle school. He was bullied a bit there, some guys had ganged up on him, did all the cliché things like tripping him up in the hall and stealing his bag. But at one point, it had gotten so bad that those boys had tormented anyone who came near Alex too, so consequently, he'd had pretty much no friends.

He remembers his first panic attack had been in the morning, when he'd tried to feign being ill to get out of school. His mom had seen through his poor pretence and insisted he go, culminating in a subsequent row and panic attack on his part.

But he's too cold to think of anything past his current situation, past the blood, oozing from a fresh cut on his knee and the usual throbbing at his temple from where his head hit the bedpost.

He wished he'd worn his hoodie to bed. Ned does. Alex had always found it odd before, but now he thinks he understands the idiosyncrasy a little better. You never know when Mrs. Newson is going to get angry at you, maybe Ned's endured something like this before.

He stands up, wincing and looks around the garden for the best place to try and sleep. There's no shed or any sort of shelter in the garden, or he'd go straight for it. Instead, he figures it's best to sleep as close to the wall of the house as possible. It's one of those ugly, cuboid houses that they built for army men's families back in the 60's. There used to be some sort of military base about a mile east of here, it functioned during the Vietnam war but has since been knocked down.

He's digressing. His point is that this house it old. The insulation isn't very good so the outside walls of the house should be warmer than anywhere else in the garden.

He curls up on top of a tarpaulin sheet someone's laid down on top of the patio and pushes his body as close to the west-facing wall of the house as he can. He's still freezing, his t-shirt is doing absolutely nothing to keep him warm and the neckline has ripped away from the rest of the shirt, a result of Mrs. Newson's rough handling.

He's not sure how much longer he can take this place.

* * *

He wakes up the next morning to Peter stood over him, nudging him in the ribs with the tip of his shoe.

"Hey, kid, wake up."

He starts, scrambling to his feet and brushing himself down of the dirt and grime that's settled onto him from the patio. Peter wrinkles his nose and steps back a little. God, how Alexander hates him.

"You should take a shower."

Alexander hates the showers here. There's one washroom, it almost resembles a school bathroom with four cubicles, two showers and some sinks along the wall. The only trouble is, the plumbing in this place is as old as the building itself, so the water often tastes a little metallic and if you're not quick to shower in the mornings, all the hot water will be used up and you'll have to shower under a freezing spray.

"Fine," he acquiesces, ignoring the look of distaste Peter shoots him at his supposed aversion to showering. It's not that Alex isn't a clean person, it's just that putting twenty-four boys in one house and giving them one bathroom never results in facilities that can be called totally hygienic.

He feels like crap this morning. That cold he mentioned, well, it comes as no surprise to Alex that sleeping outside has drastically worsened it. When he looks in the bathroom mirror, his nose is red, his under eyes puffy and his eyes watery. He looks straight out of a Kleenex advert.

He showers, the water is lukewarm bordering on cool and he has to fill the bottle of shampoo with some water and shake it around a bit to get some of the product out and into his hair. He's learnt to be good at being resourceful with these sorts of things. He's got most of it from his mom, she always managed to turn fridge leftovers into a substantial meal and make the remnants of a soap bottle last another week.

He remembers in the tropical, rainy season around October every year, they'd all have to line their shoes with cardboard to stop water soaking through the holes in them.

He dresses quickly and makes his way downstairs for breakfast. It's Saturday, so there's not really a set time for when you have to eat your morning meal. But there might as well be, for if you're too late downstairs, your food will be pretty much all gone.

Mrs. Newson, unusually, sits on the sofa in the sitting room. Normally she'd be in her office or bedroom around now, but there she is, scrolling through her iPhone, legs crossed professionally.

Alex wonders why she never got into something more rewarding, financially at least. She's not a stupid woman, she could do better for herself than foster care work. Maybe no one else would hire her. Probably because she's a fucking psychopath.

"Alex."

He bites the inside of his cheek and rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet awkwardly, nervous. She was in a bad mood last night, it seems all too probable that the same mood has carried over into this morning.

"After the incident last night," she smiles cruelly and he shivers somewhat, "I thought it might be a good idea to see a doctor, maybe get something prescribed."

His heart grows cold. He doesn't know what 'prescribed' means, (is it the same as _prescrito_?) but he knows 'doctor' alright...

And he's not going to let that happen. Even if she has to beat him black and blue and drag his cold corpse to the hospital, he's not going, at least not willingly.

The memories flood in as the dam is opened, they pour like torrents of icy water and invade every nook and cranny of his mind. Everything he's tried so hard for months to repress, to shut into some dark and undisturbed corner of his mind, it all resurfaces instantaneously.

 _"No... Doctores... No llamas a nadie... No podemos permitírselo."_

 _His mother coughs violently and through the haze of his own fever, at the very peak of its heat, he sees her eyes are milky and unfocused._

 _"Mama, necesitamos ayuda, por favor!"_

 _He moves to stand up but his legs buckle and he collapses back into their bed, trembling, his nose running. He's never been this ill before, he feels as though every part of his body is on fire._

 _His mother pulls him close with gentle, frail arms and he rests his head on her breast, breathing in the faint smell of perfume and cooking. She's warm against his hot cheek, too warm, but he doesn't care. She starts to sing to him._

 _"Au clair de la lune, mon ami Pierrot," she coughs but continues her lullaby anyway, her voice husky but sweet. His eyes flutter shut. He is so, so tired._

 _"Prête-moi ta plume, pour écrire un mot. Ma chandelle est morte... Je n'ai plus de feu..."_

 _He falls asleep with her voice singing softly out to him, it is like a blanket, dappled moonlight wrapping him in a silver embrace, just like the lullaby says. She has him, and he has her. They're all each other needs, they'll be okay. Au clair de la lune._

 _When he next awakes, her arms are limp around him, she's fallen asleep holding him. They've both been so ill, and she works so hard. Alex faintly thinks that she deserves some rest. He rolls over to look at her and lovingly brushes a dark strand of hair from her face. Her skin is cold. He sits up and shakes her slightly, through his delirium believing she is only asleep._

 _"Mama? Réveillé... Mama?"_

 _She says nothing, does nothing, her body merely falls limp, her head lolling backwards to expose the sickly colour of her skin._

 _Then, there is the sound of an ambulance's sirens and the screams of red and blue lights. He's still holding tightly to his mother's torso, but her skin is ice. He knows in his brain that she will not awake, but his heart refuses to let him leave her. She'll be lonely if he does._

 _He is in hospital. Everything smells like bleach and antiseptic and suffering. Now he knows why his mother doesn't like this place. Where is she?_

 _He's fighting to get away from the gloved hands that hold him down but something is injected to the smooth, exposed crook of his elbow. He's sobbing openly now as his consciousness is stolen from him._

 _"MAMA! Mama!"_

Mrs. Newson is watching him curiously, probably taking in his clenched fists, the way his lip trembles.

"Something the matter?"

He's having trouble staying standing up. He wants to sit down, or even fall down. He needs something solid beneath him. But he can't, that will get him hit. He can't...

"I-I... No, please... I don't want to."

He can feel tears welling up in his eyes and shakes his head defiantly, stepping backwards from Mrs. Newson in terror.

"You will do exactly as I tell you, Alexander."

Her face has taken on that same, malignant expression he's come to associate with pain. He shakes his head yet again and feels tears fall hot down his cheeks. Mrs. Newson stands up, her furious expression changes as quickly as if it meant nothing, she's smiling horribly now. This endless back and forth petrifies him.

"Are you crying, Alex? Really?"

He looks around wildly for some sort of escape route, but Peter stands too near to the door for him to make any successful dash for freedom.

"You're such a baby Alex, disobedient too."

He shakes his head again, harder this time, and backs away. Peter is watching the scene with narrowed eyes, they dart back and forth between Alexander and Mrs. Newson as though he's watching a tennis rally.

"Please, Please, I'll stop, please. Ne me faites pas!"

Mrs. Newson takes a step towards him and he cowers back, raising his hands to protect his face and heaving a loud sob. He thinks he might sense someone else's presence in the doorway, but he doesn't care. Once he's started slipping back into French or Spanish, it's clear he's too far gone to notice details.

"Speak English, Alexander. No one likes a disobedient kid, let alone a stupid one."

He whimpers and tries to move towards the door, but Peter's grabbed him hard by the arm. He struggles and kicks out, yelling and screaming in what language, even he's not sure.

"Laisse-moi partir! Laisse-moi partir! Arrête! Mierda!"

 _Let me go! Let me go! Stop! Shit!_

He hears a group of footsteps on the stairs and the sound of boys' voices. He knows people are watching, but he doesn't care, he doesn't care that throwing tantrums is something seven-year-olds do, not thirteen-year-olds.

Mrs. Newson's hand collides with his face, the cracking sound rings around the room painfully, but this only stills him momentarily, he won't go to hospital, he won't, he won't...

Peter seems to be having trouble holding him now. Alex is scrawny, but he has tough little fists that pound hard against any inch of Peter's body that he can reach and sharp elbows that flail wildly as he struggles. Alex can hear him cursing and Mrs. Newson seems to be at a loss as to what to do.

Then, Peter raises a large, powerful hand and flies it straight into his stomach, knocking all the breath out of his lungs and making his stomach close in on itself in agony. He falls to the floor in a small, bony heap, gasping for air and sobbing all the while. He's sure he looks fucking pathetic.

He thinks he hears someone's voice, one of the boys most likely, say 'Christ', but he doesn't turn to see who it is, nor does he particularly care. Mrs. Newson is going to make him see a doctor, and all he knows about them is that they've cropped up around every single bad thing that has ever happened his entire life. His and his mother's illness, her subsequent death, his cousin's suicide, the hurricane...

"Alexander?"

Mrs. Newson's voice is calm, it makes his current position all the more humiliating because there's such a contrast to her voice, _sotto voce_ and collected and his trembling shoulders.

"Would you rather go to a doctor today and not have nightmares again or continue to wake the entire house every night? Because, I assure you, if you decide on the latter I will continue to punish you for it."

He feels another sob swell in his chest, he's caught between two choices, each as appealing as the other, an impossible decision. The only logic he can really apply to the situation, in his compromised state of panic, is that choosing to go to the doctors _might_ result in his worst fears, and choosing not to will _definitely_ end worse for him.

Still, does he face his irrational and ingrained yet terrible fear or his reasonable but less in-trenched one?

"Please d-don't make me go. J-je ferais tout..."

Mrs. Newson clearly is not putting this subject up for debate. She's going to make him go. Even if he refuses, the dreams will only continue, only get worse, then she'll have to take him to someone. She's hardly going to let them continue.

"Get a coat and shoes on, Alexander, this isn't a choice you're allowed to make yourself."

He's still clutching at his stomach in agony. Peter is strong, he's got a hard punch and he knows exactly how to make his hits hurt. He's sure he'll lift up his shirt later to find purple and blue bruising.

He drags himself to his feet and runs from the room, pushing past a group of boys collected in the hallway, Jason, Michael and Ned among them. They say nothing, though he doesn't like the look he sees in Jason's grey eyes. It's hard, uncaring and cold, with, he fancies, some sort of dry mirth over the whole display too.

He clatters up the stairs, bursting into his and Ned's room and collapsing down onto his bed. He can't say no to going, he has no other choice. He doesn't own his time anymore, he can't decide what he wants because if he disobeys, he's made sleep outside, or not sleep at all, or hit.

Slowly, miserably, he lifts up his shirt and examines the sore, tender skin of his stomach. Where Peter punched him is red and aggravated looking and doubtless, it will bruise dark soon.

He pulls on a jumper and a ratty, quilted parka he stole from the PE changing rooms at school. In his defence, he's sure some 6th grader had just abandoned it, because no one in their right mind would want some shitty, tattered old puffa leaking stuffing.

He puts on a pair of chuck taylors his mom had managed to buy him last Christmas. His shoes are normally the only relatively new item of clothing he owns, because he's at that age where his feet grow so fast it's all he can do to wear one pair for longer than ten months or so.

He just showered, but he washes his face again anyway. He's a mess, his eyes are red, the skin around them is blotchy and now, feeling worse than ever, he's positive he's getting sick. Which he decidedly detests, more than the average person would.

It just reminds him all too well of scorching, aching fevers and that lightheadedness you get when you've gone too long without eating. He's spent his whole life never living in conditions under seventy-five degrees, and suddenly, he's in a place where thirty is the regular. It's wreaking havoc on his senses.

He can hear Mrs. Newson yelling his name from downstairs and he winces slightly, backing further away from the direction of her voice and drawing in on himself, like he's a piece of burning paper, curling inwards as it's slowly devoured by flames.

She yells again about thirty seconds later when he doesn't respond but this only makes the grip his fingers have on the edge of the sink tighter. His knuckles are white now. He can't go. He can't go, he won't go. He swore to himself he wouldn't let her make him.

He hears footsteps on the stairs. They don't click like heels would and sound a little lighter than Mrs. Newson's, but he still cowers away in fear. Ned walks into the bathroom, his face a little irritated, though he's evidently making an effort to appear non-threatening. Mrs. Newson must have sent him up.

"Alex, come on, you know you have to go."

He draws in a harsh breath, making no move away from Ned but none towards the door either.

"She's only going to get angrier if you keep her waiting."

He rakes a hand through his hair, which has grown to his chin now, it's really far too long, and bites down hard on his lip. Ned steps forward, takes a firm, determined hold on his arm and walks him towards the door.

Alexander is tempted to dig his heels in, refuse, kick up a fuss, but he's caused enough trouble already. The boys will have lost any respect from him that they might have had after he'd withstood Mrs. Newson's many punishments and he has no desire to sink himself further into the metaphorical mire.

He walks downstairs with Ned to where Mrs. Newson is waiting, donning her black coat and shoes, looking extremely impatient. She snatches his wrist from Ned and twists it painfully, bending down a few inches to look him straight in the face.

"You have already tried my patience far too many times, Alexander, do not make matters worse for yourself."

Grabbing her car keys off the table by the door, she pushes him out into the driveway and they leave.

* * *

Jason must really, really hate him. Ever since he arrived, made himself a target as a quiet, weird little immigrant, he's not been able to shake off this boy's dislike of him. Since the incident of a few weeks ago, when he refused to go with Mrs. Newson to the doctor's and had to be literally beaten into submission by the combined forces of herself and Peter, Jason's stepped up his game a little.

None of the boys will talk to him anymore, and he suspects this is Jason's doing. Even Ned, who had tolerated Alex better than the rest, only ever speaks to him when he absolutely has to. Alex is an introvert by nature, but there's a difference between thriving in your own company and total isolation. In that latter state, he merely wilts.

Jason seems to enjoy making his life harder, daily. If Alex is showering in one of the cubicles in the bathroom, he'll run into to all the free ones, flush the toilets and turn on all the taps so that the shower runs burning hot or freezing cold. Jason must enjoy the way Alex screams in surprise, the absolute psycho.

He's also noticed that his food portions have been steadily halving themselves, and though Mrs. Newson despises him, he doesn't think she's the person responsible.

Honestly, he dares Jason to do his worst, if he can. Alex isn't sure what he could do to make this place even more unbearable, he's the unhappiest he's ever been, he's not sure things could get any more miserable.

He takes pills for what the doctor called 'night terrors' now, Prazosin. If he takes half a pill once a day, between five and eight o'clock, his sleep is dreamless and undisturbed. He guesses this is an improvement, but for all he despised his dreams, they were the only times he got to see his mother and brother's faces.

Now he has to work with any happy memories he's got left, but they're all tarnished by knowledge that James is three thousand, four hundred and fifty-nine miles away from him in London and his mother is buried in a grave one thousand, seven hundred and sixty-three miles away on Nevis.

He looked up the distances on a school computer.

His saving grace, really, is school. He hates most of his classmates, and the majority of his teachers get on his nerves, but he gets to study books that he's always wanted to read and learn about everything from ancient history to the workings of cells to technology. Not that his school is a particularly good one, in fact, it's the opposite.

They have one science lab that the nearly two thousand students use in rotation and a dingy gym that smells like feet. It's not particularly pleasant, so Alex normally skips gym class. He doesn't think about what his mom would say if she knew.

But his school has a library, small and underfunded as it is, and a very small portion of teachers that really do care about their subjects and students, among these, his English and politics teacher, Mr. Livingston.

He's lucky to be able to do politics, actually, but they were given a choice between an extra language, Spanish or an elective of politics, shop class, or computer science. He spoke Spanish fine already, what was the point in taking it over something he's had a fascination in from a very young age?

So, school is his escape, strange as that sounds. His English isn't incredible and he has a pretty noticeable accent, but he's adapting fast, working harder than he ever has before.

He only wishes his mother was here. She'd be so proud of him.

It's after one of those long, gruelling days at school, working with very little food and sleep in his system, that he returns to a house in which Peter has left for the evening and Mrs. Newson has gone shopping.

Jason and Michael are sat in the sitting room, hogging the static-y, decade-old TV. He thinks they're watching some film, a horror by the looks of it. Some character's just been decapitated and little Amir, the five-year-old kid, is watching on in terror as the murderer licks blood off their axe. Jason and Michael seem oblivious, or more likely indifferent to the mere baby sitting behind them and laugh at the film stupidly.

Normally, Sumon would never allow this to happen, but Mrs. Newson's chosen him to help her with the shopping, so he's not here to stop this.

Alex darts forward and takes the little boy's arm, guiding him off the sofa and pulling him away from the TV. His nose is running (they're all ill, winter doesn't take kindly to malnourished foster kids after all) and his dark eyes are bright with tears. He's only a child.

"Seriously? He is five years old!"

Alexander gives Amir a gentle push into the hallway and closes the door behind him, turning furiously to where Michael and Jason have paused the TV. He doesn't know why this has angered him so much. Maybe he's just doing what he knows his brother would have done, maybe it's because he likes Sumon and knows he's not here to help, maybe it's just that he dislikes Jason and Michael.

"He could have left, we weren't stopping him."

Jason's twisted around to glare at him, sitting up a little straighter where he's sprawled on the rug.

"Jesus, he's five years old, he is not responsible for nothing he does!"

He recognises his double negative almost as soon as he says it. It's one of those grammar things he almost always gets confused over. It makes him sound like a Victorian street child. Nevertheless, he holds his ground.

Alex clenches his fists, all the eyes in the sitting room are trained on him, there are maybe ten or so boys, all scrawny and hard-faced, watching the scene before them with varying degrees of apprehension and glee.

"Fucking killjoy, there's a reason no one likes you."

He doesn't know what a killjoy is, but he can pretty much infer from the context it's been used in, and it's not very nice. It only makes his fists clench harder. His nails dig into the skin of his palms, a new habit he's begun when he really wants to talk back to Mrs. Newson or Peter, but can't.

"You're pathetic, you act like you're so-"

Jason stands up, stretches out two, scrawny but tough arms and shoves him hard, so that he loses his balance stumbles into the door.

"You little shit, you think you're so smart, someone needs to punch some sense into you."

Alexander regains his balance and glares at Jason, stepping forward and pushing some hair from his eyes. It sounds stupid, but right now, he just wants to fight someone, something. He needs the rush, something to distract from the emptiness he feels all the time.

"Oh yeah? Try me. I don't think you have it in you."

Jason glances behind him at where Michael still sits on the rug, shrugs and then, with alarming speed, flies straight at Alexander, knocking him backwards onto the rug and pinning him down with strong hands and sharp, bony knees.

Michael stands, raising a hand to cover his mouth where a grin of glee and incredulity has split his pale face.

Alexander gasps in a sharp breath and grins, spitting some hair out of his mouth and looking up at Jason with seething, mocking eyes.

"Is that all you've got?"

Jason laughs sarcastically and presses more of his body weight down against Alex, his knee is digging painfully into the vulnerable skin and bone of his bicep.

"It's funny, you think you're tough, but you're just some weird little kid with more issues than sense."

Alexander laughs and strains uselessly against the older boy's weight, his chest heaving and his veins bubbling and coursing with adrenaline. This is good. This makes him feel something.

"If there's any negative correlation between those things, then you really must be an idiot."

He's really quite proud of that retort, they did correlations in math class and it sort of just came to him. He doesn't have time to think much more about this because Jason has shifted his grip and weight for just long enough to punch Alex hard in the jaw, knocking his head sideways with the force of it, cursing at him under his breath.

"Let's hope there's a positive one between how many times I hit you and whether you finally shut up, shall we test it out?"

Alexander grins again as Jason reaches back his fist, his knuckles are already raw looking and Alexander has a feeling they'll be bloody by the time they're through.

"Yeah, but I warn, I don't give in easily."

Jason laughs —possibly at his halting English— and then he's a torrent of fists, bony knuckles colliding again and again with Alexander's face. His nose, his eyes, his cheekbones, his jaw. Michael is urging him on and at their right, Alex vaguely sees a few boys stand up and leave. No one wants to be around when a fight like this breaks out.

Jason pauses for breath and uses the brief interlude to rub his sore-looking knuckles, staring into Alex's presumably mess of a face with dry triumph.

Alexander won't stand for it. Jason thinks he's weak, that after he's been hit a few times, he's rendered useless. He intends to prove this asshole wrong.

He pretends to be disoriented, (it's not difficult, in truth, he is) letting his head thunk heavily onto the rug and taking deep, ragged breaths. Jason watches him, flexing his fingers and rotating his wrists in a manner that Alex suspects is more for show, a display of power than anything else.

Then, he sits up, pushing Jason's body off him with a massive effort and swinging hard at his face, using his nails and elbows and fists in any way he can, utilising his bony limbs to maximum effect, his knuckles tough and hard, burning in protest as they collide again and again with Jason's face.

He can feel flesh in his nail beds.

Michael is yelling and Jason is swearing, he thinks he's saying things too, but they might not be in English, and then Jason has picked him up and is throwing him hard at the floor.

Alex lands heavily, out of breath and winded. Jason kicks him hard in the ribs once, twice, three times before stamping on his left hand and letting out a long string of expletives.

"Shit, I'm surprised you had it in you, man. Guess I always took you for a pussy."

Alex sucks in another, laboured breath and looks up at Jason, sure his eyes are full of hate.

"Vete al infierno."

 _Go to hell_

Jason kicks him once more in the side, for good measure and then turns back to the TV, where Micheal has paused whatever film they were watching.

Alexander lies there on the floor for another minute or so, the adrenaline that had filled him to a bursting point is now slowly trickling away, consumed by the void that's constantly threatening to encompass him. He just feels sort of empty again.

He picks himself up, stands shakily and flips Jason off, before limping from the room. The remaining boys watch him as he moves gingerly, he's not sure how to read their expressions. Fearfully awed? Glad?

He goes first to a mirror, to assess the damage. It's pretty bad. His lip is split, his left eye is rapidly bruising and swelling painfully, so he can barely see out of it. He doesn't think Jason looks too much better, to be fair.

He's got to have some cuts on his face from Alexander's nails and he's pretty sure he got a few good hits in before Jason threw him to the ground. He's got to admit though, that Jason got him better than he did Jason.

Mrs. Newson's not going to be pleased at all. If there's one thing she punishes the worst above all, it maybe ties with Alex's nightmares, it's fighting.

To be perfectly honest, he doesn't even care anymore. She can starve him or deprive him of sleep all she wants, it's nothing he wouldn't willingly inflict on himself he could be bothered.

He enters his room, there are homework books and papers scattered across the desk. He has work due in tomorrow, and he couldn't care less about it.

He climbs into his bed, pulls the covers tightly around himself and just lies there. Not sleeping, because he's not taken his meds and can't guarantee that he won't dream, but not really thinking either. He's just sort of laid there.

Mrs. Newson will come home in about an hour. It'll only be a matter of time before she sees his and Jason's faces, and since no one else is beat up like them, it'll be obvious they'd fought. Alex wonders lethargically how she'll punish them this time. Will it be taking away their food, or sleep, or hitting them? Or will she get creative with it this time? After all, some could argue that out of the two dozen boys here, Jason and Alex annoy her the most.

She evidently sees Jason's face almost the moment she walks in the door. Alexander hears her keys in the lock and the familiar sound of high heels on hardwood. The forebearer of pain. She talks in her usual, snappish, concise manner along the hallway and then, there's a pause.

Alexander can't hear what's going on, only imagine. The entire of the downstairs floor is silent, like everyone down there has suddenly vanished. It's indescribably eerie.

Then, her voice splits the silence loudly, piercingly, painfully. He jumps. She's calling his name.

He stands up and begins the walk downstairs, shoving his hands in his pockets and letting some hair fall into his face. He reaches the top of the staircase and comes into full view of Mrs. Newson, Jason, Michael, Ned and Sumon.

He's sure his face is far worse looking than Jason's, his eye has swollen up so much that he can barely see out of it and his entire face throbs. Blood has crusted over his lip, it stings like salt rubbed into a wound.

He walks down to where they stand in the hallway, pushing his fists hard against the fabric of his pockets and keeping his eyes lowered. He doesn't really care what happens now, but he's still uncomfortable under this sort of scrutiny.

He stands in front of her, only about three-quarters of a metre away from Jason, who's holding his head a little higher than Alexander, less uncomfortable, less nervous. He knows Alex started this, he knows Alex is going to get the brunt of this punishment. He probably knew this all along. It's probably why he let Alex provoke him.

Mrs. Newson stands in silence for a moment, Alexander not daring to look up at her, keeping his eyes focused ardently on the wooden floorboards. Then, like she did that first night he'd woken her up, she reaches out and grabs his face, hard, forcing him to look up at her. He grunts in pain, his bruised and throbbing face set alight with a fresh wave of pain at her rough, sudden movement.

She takes in his injuries for a minute, her grasp getting tighter and tighter on his face, hurting so much that tears sting his eyes.

"Do you want to tell me what happened?"

Michael speaks up then, stepping forward from where he stands behind Jason.

"He started it, he said-"

Mrs. Newson turns to him and fixes him with a glare that would make a better, braver man cower. He blanches slightly and steps back, watching Alexander hatefully.

"Jason and I fought," Alex supplies, with no trace of resentment.

Mrs. Newson turns to Jason this time and fixes him with a fierce stare.

"And what could he have said to provoke..." She gestures towards the various cuts and bruises mottling Alexander's face wordlessly.

Jason puffs out his chest and glares over Mrs. Newson's shoulder at Alex, holding his head a little higher than advisable. He should know by now that Mrs. Newson doesn't like it when they get too confident. He's playing with fire by being so smug.

"He practically asked me to punch him, called me pathetic, told me to 'try him'."

Mrs. Newson turns back to Alex, her eyebrows raised, slightly incredulous that the usually meek, quiet kid could have a fiery side.

"This is true?"

Alex nods, lifting his gaze to fix Mrs. Newson with a defiant stare, because at this point, he doesn't even care.

"Yeah, and I meant it. He is pathetic. He was watching some stupid horror film, and Amir was there, he-"

Mrs. Newson holds out her hand to stop him and Alexander falls silent, his chest heaving with rage.

"Go fix your face, it's a mess. Come back downstairs when you're done."

He glares at her, shoves his hands back in his pockets and slouches back upstairs without a word. He knows every dirty look will dig him further and further into this stupid hole he's made himself, but can't find it within him to regret anything.

He washes his face, scrubs the blood from his lip and fixes his hair. In all honesty, he doesn't look much better after it all. He can't hide the bruising, or the redness, or the swelling.

He trudges back downstairs and into the living room, where he hears Jason's voice. No doubt, the boy had used Alex's absence as an opportunity to besmirch him even further to Mrs. Newson.

He walks into the room and stands by the door, refusing to sit down next to Jason, who is sprawled lazily across the couch as though he hasn't any worries whatsoever concerning his present situation. Surely he realises that though Alex is going to get it worse than him, he'll still be punished.

Frankly, Alex thinks this is a little unfair, because though he did provoke Jason, that much is true, Jason is sixteen. He, in the eyes of most adults, should be more mature than allowing thirteen-year-olds to pick fights with him. He did also fuck up Alexander's face far worse than Alex did his.

Mrs. Newson stands in front of the couch, turned to face him as he walks into the room. Her eyes rake over his appearance, hardly improved from moments ago and she sighs in displeasure.

"Alex, I have to say I'm surprised."

He glares at her but says nothing, drawing circles on the floor with the tip of his foot and letting some hair fall into his face.

"Do you know how it looks, how it reflects upon me, if you go into school looking like this?"

Jason says nothing, merely crosses his legs and watches Mrs. Newson in an almost convincing pretence of understanding.

Alexander, however, is not so adept at holding his tongue or keeping his thoughts to himself. He just goes and makes the situation worse for himself.

"But it's fine that we all go in half-starved and exhausted, is it?"

Mrs. Newson stands up, livid. He doesn't think he's ever heard anyone talk to her like that, normally the extent of the other boys' impertinence is a 'whatever' or an eye roll. This is different.

So, of course, she slaps him, hard enough to make his cheek sting sharply. That was to be expected, though. She hit Ned on one of her bad days because he rolled his eyes at her, frankly, he's surprised she didn't do more. It must mean that whatever punishment she's thought up for him is pretty substantial.

She turns from him to Jason, who is watching Alex with near confusion. Possibly due to his bravery, more likely due to his stupidity.

"You. You're going to make breakfast tomorrow and clean the sitting room for the rest of the week. That is less than you deserve, next time, I won't be so lenient."

She's right, it is less than he deserves, at least in proportion to what Alex is going to get. He can't bring himself to regret anything he's said or done in the last hour but he doesn't like the consequences very much.

Then, to his utmost confusion, she turns and leaves the room.

Jason watches him, confused, for a moment before standing up and shrugging.

"If I'm not mistaken, you're fucked."

Alex rolls his eyes, his heart pounds in his chest.

"Piss off."

* * *

Jason is right. He is indeed fucked. This becomes more apparent later in the evening. He's late to go down to dinner for a number of reasons. Firstly, he fell asleep and only woke up to Ned's footsteps across the floor of their room, secondly, he couldn't really be bothered to get up and thirdly, he doesn't want to see Mrs. Newson.

He does go down eventually, but it's not to much hope that he'll get anything. Mrs. Newson surely intends to punish him, he'll be lucky if he eats any time in the next week, here at least.

Sure enough, he's taken one step into the dining room when he catches Mrs. Newson's eye. She shakes her head, stands up and points towards the door he's just come through.

He shrugs and turns back around, ignoring the hunger burning in his stomach. Breakfast this morning had consisted of juice and at school, he'd had an apple. He doesn't particularly care about eating, but it does physically hurt not to. He'd rather just feel nothing, oblivion.

He walks back upstairs, curls back up underneath his bed covers and lies there until he hears the other boys' footsteps on the stairs, ignoring the homework he's got to do for the next day, trying to ignore how hungry he is and simply pitying himself. Because, at this point, he thinks he deserves that much.

He's brushing his teeth in the bathroom when he hears Mrs. Newson's footsteps climbing the stairs. He spits and rinses hurriedly, watching the door with apprehension and taking a few, almost subconscious steps back.

She stands in the doorway, observing him for a moment and then jerks her head in the direction of the stairs. He sets his toothbrush down by the sink and follows her downstairs, Jason watches him from the dimly lit doorway to the left of his and Ned's room.

He guessed this would happen, it seemed likely after the events of today. He only wonders if the method of punishment tonight will be standing in the sitting room or sleeping outside. He despises them both, not sure which one he'd rather endure. If he sleeps outside, at least he _sleeps_ and if he stands in the sitting room, he doesn't, but then at least he's warm.

She pushes him into the living room and he lets out a small sigh. He's wearing his hoodie, of course, sleeping in the garden would have been horrible, but he would have slept at least and he's better clothed for it now.

Mrs. Newson backs him into the corner of the room. He hates this, it makes him feel like some kindergartener. In his elementary school, when they were really little, Amir's age, maybe, they had a 'time out corner' where kids would go for fighting or eating glitter or something. He finds the whole thing patronising now, despite the fact that Mrs. Newson, however horrible she is, would never deprive a kid Amir's age of sleep like this.

"Frankly, you've acted like a child today, Alexander, but that comes as no surprise."

He resists the urge to do something inflammatory like roll his eyes and looks, instead, at his feet.

"You've moved from some forgotten spot in the Caribbean to the foster system, and you'll move from juvie to prison if you don't check yourself."

He physically rather than metaphorically bites his tongue at this, livid. He fought one kid, and because this woman wants to humiliate him and has some messed up, classist, racist ideas, he has to put up with this.

"Do you understand me?"

He says nothing, does nothing.

"Do you understand me, Alexander?"

She repeats herself more forcefully this time and— again with the face grabbing! Her fingers press hard into a bruise along his jaw and he hisses in pain, looking up at her hatefully.

"Yes."

She nods once, he is seething, clenching and unclenching his fists. Mrs. Newson turns then, walks towards the door and then stops in her tracks. Without looking back at him, her hand on the doorknob, she speaks again.

"I don't need to remind you of the consequences if you sit down or move, do I, Alexander?"

He pauses for a beat or two, considering his options. Oh, how he would _love_ to say yes, or respond insolently, tell her to piss off or something equally disparaging. How he would relish in the sting when she slapped him for it, or the the fury in her eyes when she turned to face him. He could live off that feeling, he thinks, the adrenaline of expectancy, of tension.

But he is afraid of this women, despite the toughness he's let grow like a shell around him these last few months. He's still just a scared little kid. He's only thirteen, scrappy, hungry, crumbling. He holds his tongue. Because as much as he feels he deserves to be slapped and punched and beaten, the very human, survivalist part of him retains its last shreds of self-preservation.

"No, Mrs. Newson."

She nods, still not facing him and walks from the room, closing the door behind her and cutting off the last slice of light from the hallway outside. He slumps, leaning heavily against the wall.

How did he get here?

* * *

The next week doesn't pass, it drags, taking Alex with it, moving excruciatingly slowly. He stands for the entirety of that first night, Mrs. Newson looks surprised when she walks in the next morning to see him awake and upright.

She doesn't give him breakfast that day. He still has to sit at the table though, Peter watches him malevolently from across the room. The other boys sit around him, eating. He folds his arms on the table and rests his head on them, not sleeping, just shutting everything else out. No one disturbs him, he thinks they pity him. Though, evidently not enough to give him any of their food.

School comes and goes, he sleeps in most of his lessons. The teachers don't care. They're used to washed and rung out teenagers. He's just another foster kid, skinny in his too-big jumper and thrice rolled jeans.

He goes to a vending machine at lunch and manages to bang at the side in such a way that a Hershey's bar falls into the opening below. He eats it outside, under the shadow of the maths building. No one disturbs him back here, only the occasional stoners and junkies come to trade edibles, get high and play hacky sack.

Mrs. Newson puts him in the living room again that night, after dinner, of which he wasn't allowed to eat. He doesn't even blink in surprise this time. She thinks she's broken him. Maybe she has.

Jason sneaks a girl into the house a few nights later.

Mrs. Newson is out shopping, Peter's gone home. Jason brings her home after school and leads her up the stairs, in the direction of his room.

She's quite pretty, Alex supposes. She's got short, dirty blonde hair with Avril Lavigne eyeliner and nicotine fingertips. Her clothes are rough and worn looking. Maybe her family's as poor as they are. On her wrists, she has inch thick stacks of bands and bracelets, they shift aside as she holds Jason's hand, Alex sees red gashes on the skin there.

She looks about Jason's age, maybe she goes to their school. The girl shoots him a look as Jason pulls her by the hand into his room, it's hard, it's a clear warning, but it's almost pitying too. Jason puts a finger to his lips before he closes the door.

Michael's been kicked out into the sitting room, he looks a little grumpy. You can hear Jason and the girl laughing upstairs. The window of their bedroom is open, Alex thinks they're smoking out of it. Sumon's shut Amir up in his room with a picture book for the time being and shoots Alex an exasperated look when they pass each other in the hallway.

Later, through the rather thin walls, they hear more than just laughter. Alex puts a pillow over his head and tries to sleep, praying that Mrs. Newson doesn't come home. They'll all be in for it if she does.

Jason and his girl are lucky. She leaves about ten minutes before Mrs. Newson's car pulls up in the driveway and Jason's fanned the smell of whatever they were smoking out the window. Michael slinks back in later, Jason and him can be heard arguing heatedly that very evening.

Alex hasn't eaten properly in days and Mrs. Newson's showed no signs of letting him rejoin breakfast or dinner. Once a day, she might toss him an apple or a granola bar, she doesn't want him to starve to death, but it's not enough. He's not grown a millimetre since he arrived here three months ago and he thinks he's gotten even scrawnier.

He's grown adept at stealing food from the school cantine.

If he walks to the fridge there, grabs a sandwich and then submerges himself in the throng of kids that flock the hall, he can slip past the paying point and out into the courtyard unnoticed. He does this only when he has to, because his mother taught him that stealing was wrong. He only resorts to this when black spots threaten to overcome his vision. When it's imperative he eat.

After four or five days, Ned's started throwing him concerned looks in the hallway at school or when they brush their teeth beside each other in the bathroom. He still comes down to the sitting room in the morning to wake Alex before Mrs. Newson, make sure she doesn't catch him asleep on the floor. Sumon presses an extra granola bar into his hand the same day and jogs off, not looking back.

He'd thanked Alex on the day he'd fought Jason, for helping Amir, Alex supposes he feels partially responsible for what happened. He doesn't know how selfish Alex is, that he wasn't fighting for Amir, just for himself.

His grades are sinking. He got an A+ in his last English essay, this time around he barely scraped a B. Mr. Livingston watches him closely now from his desk, sighs in disappointment when Alex sleeps in class but doesn't question it. He's probably been let down by enough promising, disenfranchised kids before now. Why is Alex any different?

He's found it harder and harder to function. These days, getting up from the floor of the living room where he's crumpled up like a piece of rubbish, exhausted, takes so much effort.

By the time he gets to school he doesn't have energy for anything else. At lunch, he steals his food and goes to the library. On his better days he'll pour over books, sometimes he merely sleeps. The librarian's grown used to him. She doesn't say anything when he ignores the bell and skips fourth, she lets him hang around even when he should be in class.

* * *

It's the early hours of a Sunday morning when he does it.

Ned's not sleeping in their room tonight, he's gone on some mandatory, overnight field trip that Alexander is surprised their school could even afford, though he thinks some politician might have stepped in to help as part of some campaign. Give some 'poor, disenfranchised delinquents' a fun day out. Alex thinks that he'd rather their area have street lights at night or better water.

He's all alone, starving despite being allowed to eat both breakfast and dinner and he's stressed. He has a project due in tomorrow that he hasn't even started. He probably won't even turn up to the class to be totally honest, but he's disappointed in himself. He's failed his mother. These days he only really gets Cs, his math teacher told him the other day that he was failing their quadratics unit. He found that he didn't even care.

His Prazosin, the pills he takes for his nightmares, sit in their little bottle on the chest of drawers. It's half empty, the prescription will have to be renewed sometime soon, there's maybe a dozen pills left.

He stands up from where he's curled up on top of his sheets and opens the bottle, pouring the pills out onto the top of the drawers. The pills bounce and roll in different directions, little ovals, gleaming in the light. They look strangely enticing. A smooth, shiny exterior, all so perfectly round.

This is strange, he's not thinking clearly tonight, his thoughts are elsewhere. On Jason and his girlfriend, the cuts on her arm. On Amir and Sumon, who might be adopted sometime soon, apparently. He prefers to think about other people's business, their struggles, their lives. It's easier than his own, he can tell himself that at least he doesn't have it as bad they do.

Well, at least he used to find comfort in that. These days, it's hard to think these other boys have it worse than him. Sumon and Amir have each other and Jason seems to enjoy time with his girlfriend.

He takes the pills in one hand and feels them against his palm, observing the strange, smooth sensation against his skin.

He wonders what would happen if he were to take them. Maybe he should, he has nothing to lose. It might be easier, less work, less bother to just end it all here.

Mrs. Newson's probably right. He'll move from the foster system to juvie to prison, he already steals on a daily basis. He hasn't got James, or his mom, or his cousin or his home.

He doesn't really see why he's still here, hanging around in this place with people who don't care about him, people who are, rather than merely indifferent towards him, actively malevolent.

He sits on the floor, leaning his back against the side of his bed. Alex watches the pills pensively. He's not really scared, he feels a little flat, if he's honest, like three-day-old seltzer water.

The sky outside is dark. It's really early in the morning, the dawn hasn't even broken over the tops of the houses across the street. It won't for a few hours yet.

He looks around the room, taking in the tattered blinds and graffiti-ed chest of drawers. Some foster kids of the past have written their names on it.

'Jake was here', 'fuck off', 'Nathan's mom is fat', and the usual teenage boy obscenities.

It all seems so stupid to Alex. Why do people feel the urge to forever imprint their names into things they touch? School desks, walls, wardrobes, boyfriends and girlfriends. He doesn't like the idea of it, it feels like ownership, ownership of things that don't belong to anybody specific. This wardrobe doesn't belong to 'Jake', it doesn't belong to Ned or him, or Mrs. Newson. It's for everyone. Just like the wall someone's written their name on by his school doesn't belong to that person, it's the city's wall.

He's losing his mind.

He takes the pills.

No water, no buildup. Twelve or so of them, tipped down in one go, sharp and clustering in his throat until he closes his eyes and swallows with a mighty effort.

He reads then, waiting for something to happen. A dozen pills isn't too much, but these things are really, really strong. He can only take half of one a day, the doctor warned him not to accidentally double dose. Now he's going to double dose twelve-fold. On purpose.

He reads through an English textbook, testing himself, seeing how well his brain is working as time passes. At first, everything is normal. He can remember dates, words for different literary techniques, the characters in certain books. Twenty minutes later, however, the definition of pathetic fallacy fails him, as well as the year Edgar-Allen-Poe published the Raven. In another twenty minutes, he can't even read the words on the page. They're blurring in and out of each other, making him dizzy. He has to shut the book.

It's five minutes before he loses consciousness, leaned against the side of his bed. An empty bottle of pills beside him and an English textbook on his lap. The light is still turned on, his bedroom door is open a crack. The blind casts a striped shadow onto the street outside, frost grows on his window pane. The house sleeps.

Alex is still in exactly that position, limp and slumped, when Ned comes home early the next morning. He pushes open the door, only to find it blocked by Alexander's foot. He forces it a little a little harder, leans his weight heavier against the door and steps in, freezing in the doorway when his eyes fall on Alexander. Ned yells.

Alexander does nothing, his head lolls slightly forwards. Ned kneels down and shakes him violently. His eyes open a crack and he groans, flopping onto his stomach. The older boy seizes his arm, drags him from the room and into the hall, as fast as he can. He's seen the empty pill bottle, the blueness of his younger roommate's lips. He knows what he's done, frankly he shouldn't be surprised. They've all wanted to, they've all thought about it. Everyone, well, maybe except little Amir.

Alex isn't heavy at all, but Ned isn't strong either. He pulls the younger boy to the bathroom, cursing loudly and leans him over the toilet. He has no idea if this is what he should do, he has no idea if it will work, but he has to do something, right? He can't possibly make things worse.

Grimacing, Ned holds open Alex's jaw and sticks his fingers down his throat, trying to make him get sick. He needs to throw up whatever he took. He also needs to be careful not to choke him.

Alex fights him off, sluggishly. His arms sleepily hit Ned in the chest, but the older boy doesn't falter. Alexander gags, Ned pulls his hand away, and then, the younger boy gets sick.

Ned wrinkles his nose, looks behind him into the hallway and yells out for Sumon. No one comes. The boys might think this is another one of Alex's nightmares, they've probably gotten used to blocking out nighttime yelling. He swears loudly, grabs Alexander's arm and pulls him from the bathroom.

At the top of the stairs, he realises he has to carry him. He can't risk hurting Alex by dragging him down the steps. He pulls him onto his back and hurries as fast as he can to Mrs. Newson's room, pounding violently on the door.

She looks, for a moment, furious. Her hair is tied in a low bun and she's only wearing a night slip, it's early yet. Maybe five or six.

Then, her eyes fall on Alexander. He's leaning heavily against Ned, unconscious, blue lips and pale skin.

"Call nine one one, now."

* * *

Alexander wakes up in hospital. He knows he's in hospital by the smell, bleach and antiseptic, and by the whiteness of everything. Bone white, sun-bleached skull white.

There's a nurse stood by his bed, doing something with her back turned away from him. He can feel panic drenching him, rising like a tide inside him. He sits up, wanting to get out of this bed, to leave this place.

The nurse turns around, sees that he's sat up and starts slightly.

Alex doesn't care, he wants out of here, he wants to get away from this room, this nurse, this building. She's holding a syringe in one hand, like the one they injected into him when he was ill with that fever, after his mom died.

He squirms away from her in the bed, backing himself up against the wall in terror. She won't touch him with that thing, she won't touch him period. He just wants to go home. By home, of course he doesn't mean Mrs. Newson's house, he means Nevis. He means his mom and his brother.

Why is the simplest wish so impossible, why can't it just be so?

The nurse puts the syringe down slowly and holds out her hands, showing him that they are empty. His fears are not dispelled, he'll only calm down when he's away from here.

"It's alright, it's alright. There's no need to be frightened, I just need to get a doctor."

He shakes his head frantically and makes to stand up, but something is attached to his arm. A needle, it stings painfully when he tries to pull away from it.

"No doctores, je voudrais partir, je voudrais partir! Laisse-moi partir!"

 _No doctors, I want to go, I want to go! Let me go!_

She moves towards him but he jumps back, his head pounding and his throat burning. He feels ill, so, so ill. Taking a dozen strong, sympatholytic pills does that to you.

"Leave me alone, I want to go!"

A wave of dizziness crashes over him and he closes his eyes, doing his best not to sink down back into the bed, he just wants to leave, he needs to get out of this place.

Another nurse stands in the doorway, holding a clipboard and looking shocked. He walks quickly into the room and Alex backs further into the corner, feeling even more closed in, more trapped.

"Alexander, you just need to get some rest. No one wants to hurt you, you're sick, you just need to lie down."

He looks around wildly for any route of escape, brought back to about a month ago when he'd tried to resist Mrs. Newson taking him to a doctor. He pulls again at the needle that leads into his arm and hisses in pain at the sharp sting. It doesn't give, it's secured by surgical tape and he hasn't the courage to pull any harder.

"Don't pull at that, you need to lie down."

The male nurse moves forward, Alexander can't get away— he's backed into the corner of the room, kneeling on his bed The male nurse attempts to placate him, throwing the other nurse behind him a pointed look.

She nods and jogs from the room, Alexander still pushing himself firmly into the corner protecting himself with outstretched arms.

He stays like that, trying to defend himself, his anxiety spiking higher and higher as the male nurse tries to talk comfortingly to him.

It's only five minutes until footsteps return in the corridor, two sets of them this time. The first, female nurse walks in the door closely followed by Mrs. Newson.

Alexander freezes.

She's dressed in her usual black. A blazer and skirt, hair tied half back, makeup impeccable. Her expression is a thin veneer of concern and worry, though Alexander knows this is entirely false. She wouldn't have cared if he had actually died, beyond the repercussions it would have on _her_.

She steps forward and immediately, the panic floods back into him. He tries to move along the wall, away from this woman but has no where to go. He shakes his head violently, feels tears well up and holds his hands up over his face.

"Je— Je voudrais— I want to leave!"

He sees, through the gap between his arms, Mrs. Newson glance awkwardly at the two medical staff. She reaches forward, attempting to placate him and touches his shoulder gently. He shivers.

"How are you feeling? Are you alright?"

Her face is turned away from the two nurses. Her eyes are warning, cold. She's telling him to calm down, to act normal, to lie back. Otherwise they'll be consequences.

He holds his breath, lies back onto the bed and grits his teeth. His stomach churns with either illness or fear, probably both.

The nurses look at each other and the second one, the man, picks up the syringe from where the woman had laid it down.

"You need to have this shot, is that alright?"

He widens his eyes and looks in fear at all of them. He doesn't want this, he doesn't want this, he doesn't want—

 _He's fighting to get away from the gloved hands that hold him down but something is injected to the smooth, exposed crook of his elbow. He's sobbing openly now as his consciousness is stolen from him._

 _"MAMA! Mama!"_

He sucks in a sharp breath, shaking his head slowly and feels the insatiable urge to flee again.

"I don't... Please..."

Mrs. Newson narrows her eyes and glares at him sternly, tilting her face about thirty degrees away from the nurses so that only Alex is privy to her expression.

"Alexander, it's only one injection."

He's not scared of needles, or the pain. He's scared of the memories, of what last happened when he was given a shot. One moment, with his mother, the next, surrounded by strangers.

He takes a deep breath, looks away and holds out his arm. The male nurse moves forward, readies the syringe and then injects it quickly into the side of his bicep. It hurts a little, but it isn't the pain he's afraid of. Nothing happens instantly, however. Unlike last time, he remains conscious and lucid. It is as though nothing has happened. He breathes a sigh of relief.

"Can we have the room, please? If there's nothing else you need to do?"

Mrs. Newson looks from one nurse to the other politely, Alex feels his heart rate begin to speed up. He is glad there's no beeping machine there by his bed like in the movies, otherwise the nurses would be able to see and hear his fear.

"Of course, yes."

The male nurse seals the syringe in a small, plastic bag and they both leave, closing the door behind them.

"What in God's name were you thinking, Alexander?"

Her voice is low and deadly, like the ominous hissing of a snake before it strikes. He backs away slightly, reaching his hands up tentatively to hide his face.

"I— I don't... I'm sorry."

She throws her hands in the air and scoffs, shaking her head in exasperation. As though he's not made his bed rather than tried to kill himself.

"Do you know the repercussions this could have, on me, on you? Did you honestly think it would work? Alexander, people don't die from taking twelve sleeping pills!"

He drops his head and shrugs, watching his hands in shame. He's an idiot. He's messed everything up, he couldn't even kill himself right.

"I... I..."

Mrs. Newson laughs sarcastically.

"Don't waste your breath, it's not going to change anything. You can't stay at the house anymore, you'll be re-homed. Frankly, I'm glad. You're more trouble than you're worth."

He says nothing, she told him not to waste his breath.

"You think a group home is bad? Alex, you had a good deal where you were! You'll spend the next five years shoved through foster homes. You probably won't be adopted, you're too old for that, but you won't turn eighteen for a few years yet."

He scowls and pulls at his hospital gown. He doesn't like not being in his own clothes. He doesn't like that someone changed him out of them.

"I had a 'good deal' at yours, huh?"

Mrs. Newson looks as though she'd like to hit him, but of course, he is ill in hospital and her hits tend to be hard enough to leave redness afterwards. One of the nurses would see.

"Yeah, you did. Trust me, group homes are the only places for kids like you. Do you really want to be staying with a different family every other month, total strangers?"

He says nothing, just looks at his hands and bites his lip. She's scared him now. She's right, too. He doesn't want to be staying with total strangers in new houses every month. He likes at least some semblance of permanence, of routine. Even at Mrs. Newson's, he'd known what to expect from her.

She steps back slightly, shakes her head and walks from the room.

It's the last time he sees her.

Peter brings his things around later, in his duffel bag. The next day, his social worker visits to talk to him about his next placement, the Harveys. He leaves the hospital that night.

It's only in the back of his social worker's car that he opens his duffel bag. Something falls out from between the pages of his English textbook.

A slip of paper.

Amir's made him a get well soon card. He's drawn Alexander, himself and Sumon in crayon, stick figures with hair and clothes. When he opens it, there are three different types handwriting inside.

The large, spiky one of Amir that merely reads his name, misspelt, the smaller, rounded one of Sumon that reads 'Get well soon, good luck— Sumon' and right in the corner of the card, Ned's handwriting. It simply reads, 'We'll miss you. Get well soon — Ned.'

Alexander won't miss Mrs. Newson, or Peter, or Jason, or the hunger but he will miss Ned's quiet personality and protectiveness, Amir's childish innocence and Sumon's sense of humour. He supposes there's something to be said for the group aspect of Mrs. Newson's foster home. He'll miss them too.


	34. Chapter 33

**Hello! This update's been written for a little while, I hadn't published it because I'd been working on that prequel chapter. Speaking of, you don't** _have_ **to read that, it will give you a much better understanding of Alex and the reasons for some of his habits and personality traits, so I recommend you do, but if you can't be bothered because it's freaking 18,000 words, I don't blame you.**

 **I hope you guys had good Christmases, or Hanukkahs, or just weekends. Whatever you celibate or don't, I hope you're all happy.**

 **Guest: He's so cute to write, I love him.**

 **SilentShifter20: (:**

 **Trigger Warnings: Suicide ideation/ planning, mention of self harm, nightmares, illness, hospitals.**

The Washingtons' street was really quite glorious at sunset. Sprawling, well kept lawns, birches planted thickly along the sidewalk, the occasional dog walker ambled by. Winter sunsets were by far Eliza's favourite, the sky streaked with dusky, fluttering pinks and powdery purples.

The neighbourhood the Washingtons lived in had always felt warm, comforting. Music drifted like feathers from an open window at the corner, a kid with grazed elbows and messy hair ran alongside a panting, grinning dog and a group of women played cards on the veranda of a house two doors down from Alexander's place. Their laughter and conversation carried down to where Eliza stood, drifting gently around her in the clinking of crystal tumblers and the shuffling of cards. Flush, soft, tranquil. Alexander was lucky to live in such an area.

His house, however, didn't quite look occupied. The car had left the driveway, the downstairs curtains were closed and only the hall light was on, glowing softly through the frosted pane of the front door. The windows of the upstairs floor were dark and forlorn looking, as though they hadn't been slept or lived in for some time.

Eliza's brow creased into a frown, but she walked up the driveway anyway, checking the mail box on the way. It was full, fuller than it ought to be. There were junk leaflets and business letters, and a paper or two as well. Evidently, no one had checked the box in a some time.

This was exceedingly strange. She'd been around at the Washingtons' before, in maybe sixth or seventh grade, for Lafayette's twelfth or thirteenth birthday. It had been her, John, Hercules and some other kids in their year. She remembered the house being pleasant and welcoming. Martha and George had cooked lunch, the smell had wafted throughout the house, the fire had been lit. She'd loved it there.

What she recalled was totally different to the state of loneliness the place had fallen into now.

Eliza stepped the last few paces towards the front door and rang the bell, listening to it echo through the house for a few seconds. She waited, listening out for voices or footsteps, but heard none.

As she had suspected, no one was home.

This puzzled her. Alex, if he was sick, surely would be at home resting? Unless he was ill enough to be in hospital? But then, where was Lafayette, where were his foster parents?

Would it be worth texting Lafayette through Instagram? She didn't have his number, but if she turned on her data and hoped he had WiFi, maybe she'd get something?

Eliza sat on the wall of the Washingtons' house and opened Instagram, searching for Lafayette (his name was Lafrançaise, how predictable) and texting him on direct messaging.

 _ElizaSchuyler: Hey, wondering where you and Alex have been all week, hope everything's okay?_

She jumped off the wall and started walking, then. Lafayette wasn't home, she had no way of knowing when he was going to text her back and Eliza certainly wasn't about to wait around at his house to see if he _maybe_ returned sometime before dark.

The bus ride was a quick one. The Washingtons' neighbourhood bordered her own and because of the nature of the area, it being pretty quiet and secluded, the bus only stopped twice, once to let a young man off near the York and another time to let a little old lady on.

It was just starting to drizzle when Eliza walked up the front porch, fuzzy specks of rain that settled on her hair like snow in droplets, too small to soak. She could feel them on her eyelashes, speckling her glasses. The windows of her house were all radiating a welcoming warmth, she hurried towards the door and dug into her pocket for a key.

"Ik ben thuis mama!"

 _I'm home mom!_

The first things that met her when she stepped over the threshold of the house were the familiar smell of dinner cooking and the faint thump of music emanating through the ceiling from Angelica's room.

Her mother's soft footsteps moved from inside the kitchen to the hallway and Eliza hung up her coat, shaking out her hair from where it had been hidden under her collar.

"You took your time."

Eliza's mom was a short woman, with, like Eliza, dark hair and eyes. She was stern but loving, warm, but stubborn. It did often feel like she was a combination of all the five sisters' personalities. Though, Angelica had inherited a good deal of her father's wit and confidence.

"Just spoke to a teacher after class."

The woman nodded and smiled, clapping her hands twice and turning back to the kitchen, speaking then in rapid, assertive Dutch.

"Het eten is bijna klaar. Kom binnen tien minuten naar beneden."

 _Dinner's nearly ready, be down in ten._

Eliza smiled and hung up her scarf, kicking off her shoes and starting up the stairs.

"Zeker."

 _Sure._

Angelica's room was the last in the hallway upstairs. Eliza had the loft, Peggy was to the right of Angie and all their other siblings slept in various rooms around the house.

Eliza could hear Bikini Kill pumping very clearly through her older sister's door, she always did this. It got on Eliza's nerves. Just because she was the oldest she thought she got to do whatever she wanted.

She knocked on her sister's door and walked in without waiting to be invited, greeted to her sister sat on the floor, surrounded by a pile of papers and blue tack, clearly rearranging the posters around her room.

Next to her sat a half-finished bowl of ramen noodles, her dark hair was tied up in a knot and she wore only an oversized t-shirt.

Eliza raised her eyebrows and walked into the room, straightening out Angelica's duvet and turning her nose up at the open lipsticks and mascaras on the dresser.

"This place is a mess."

Angelica rolled her eyes and cut a _Brand New_ poster in half, discarding it to the side with an expression of distaste.

"I'm a junior doing AP mock exams this semester, I'm allowed to be messy."

Eliza smirked and lay back on Angelica's bed, staring up at the ceiling and pulling off her jumper.

"Yeah, but you're always like this."

Angelica shrugged and stood up, stepping lightly lever to the wall above her desk and tacking up a _Pretty on the inside_ poster.

"How was school?"

Eliza shrugged and rolled over, wincing as she shifted onto a mug.

"Seriously, a mug Angie? Why is there a mug in your bed?"

Angelica looked up only briefly from what she was doing, apparently unconcerned at her sister's incredulity. She shrugged.

"I had coffee earlier."

Eliza sighed and placed the mug on her sister's bedside table, frowning.

"Fine. School was fine. Just, you know Alex? He hasn't been in for like five days. I'm getting a bit worried."

Angelica sat down her scissors and tilted her head slightly, watching Eliza with vague apprehension. Her carefully plucked eyebrows creased somewhat and she drummed her fingers almost cautiously against the hardwood floor.

"I heard a weird rumour the other day about him."

Eliza sat up and shifted closer towards the edge of the bed, crossing her legs and fixing her sister with a suspicious gaze, her eyes harder than they had been moments prior.

"Oh? What was it?"

Angelica sucked her teeth and then bit her lip, looking slightly sheepish.

"Not to rain on your parade or anything, just that Samuel Seabury said some stuff about him."

Eliza sat up a little straighter, her eyebrows nearly disappearing under her dark bangs.

"Oh yeah? What did Samuel Seabury, the paragon of all that is true and just, tell you?"

Angelica shrugged and picked up some blue tack, rolling it into a small ball between her thumb and forefinger and averting her gaze from Eliza.

"Just that... Well, that he was a bit of a weirdo really, apparently he's on drugs. Not sure how much of it is true but... I don't know, always seemed like a fine dude to me."

This couldn't possibly be true. It brought everything Eliza thought she knew about Alexander into question. Could it be possible that Eliza knew even less than she thought about the fiery, bookish kid?

"Who started this? Where did Samuel hear it from?"

"Don't know. Heard a few other people say it too. Apparently, he's in hospital? I don't know."

Eliza stood up, walking quickly towards the door without a spare glance at Angelica.

"I have some people to call."

* * *

It was nearly half five, the sky outside was dark and unwelcoming, smudged with fingerprint clouds. Mist rubbed it's muzzle eagerly against the window panes and wrapped its body once, tiredly around the building, resting its head upon its paw and falling asleep.

Dinner was given around to patients at six, so Alexander planned to ask Marian about that shower he wanted when she came to give it to him, and whether he could wear his own clothes anytime soon. How he longed to snatch back at any semblance of identity, of himself. He hated this cold, bleached room. He'd yet to consider The Washingtons' place home, but it was infinitely more dear to him than _here_.

He'd already finished his AP politics textbook and was halfway through his English one. Though, since English was a more abstract subject where there were fewer facts to learn, it made the textbook a less interesting read than the Politics one.

Most pages were essay writing guides, book analyses or context sections about authors or certain periods in time.

He'd have to ask Lafayette to bring him some more things to read soon.

Just then, Marian walked in. She carried a grey box, full of what Alex guessed were the usual items. Every day, Marian changed his bandage, changed his drip, took blood and did the standard orientation tests.

"Hey, how was the visit earlier?"

Alex shrugged and forced a smile, closing the book in front of him and setting his legs down flat under the blankets.

"It was fine, good. Thanks."

Marian smiled and brought the tray over to where he sat, placing it on the end of his bed and taking out a bottle of iodine tincture, some cotton swabs and a roll of bandages.

"Just going to change your bandages, and I think I might try taking off your cannula for a little while, I think from now you'll be fine without it."

Alexander nodded and lifted his bandaged arm from out under the bedclothes. He didn't like having the bandaged changed, it was awkward and uncomfortable.

He didn't like having a nurse looking at all the old cuts and scars along his forearm, especially not the most recent, long, jagged one she was treating.

Marian was efficient though, she didn't waste any time, always got everything over and done with as quickly as possible.

She unwrapped his bandages and discarded them into a plastic bag, examining the cut on his forearm for a moment.

"It's healing well."

He shrugged and looked away, his foot tapping incessantly against the bar of his bed. He just wanted this over and done with.

Marian took the bottle of iodine, opened it and squeezed a few drops of the liquid on to a cotton swap. She dabbed the swab over the length of his coat and then began to bandage the cut, leaving the swab of iodine beneath the bandages.

Then, she slapped herself lightly on the head and sighed loudly, tugging at his bandage one last time to secure it.

"I've forgotten the tape. I'll go and get it, just give me a second."

Alexander nodded numbly, keeping his arm laid out on the duvet cover and watching Marian headed from the room and down the corridor.

As he waited, his eyes fell from his arm to the bottle of iodine sitting about half a metre from his hand. The light from the sunset outside the window made the glass gleam gently, like gold. He could see the sharp, shifting reflections of the fluorescent lights overhead.

The longer he looked at it, the more his throat seemed to tighten and the wider the pain seemed to bloom across his chest.

It would be so easy to just open the bottle and drink it. Just... down the whole thing.

He didn't exactly know what would happen, but at this point, he felt nothing could really hurt his chances. He remembered a boy at the high school he'd gone to in New York had chugged a bottle of iodine one night. He remembered that in class the next day his brother had to be taken to the front office, he'd started crying in the middle of math. No one had known what to do.

The boy hadn't died, but Alexander remembered that he'd come alarmingly close. That boy, well, he had been a tall, well built, healthy teenager. Maybe if he, the ill, skinny kid did the same thing he might stand a chance of... Well... Alex wasn't generally one to use euphemisms or shy away from his thoughts, but with this... He'll say, 'getting what he wants'.

He could feel his hand itching to reach forward and take the bottle, his brain was working at ten thousand miles an hour. What did he have to lose? Maybe he'd just... Lose consciousness and not wake up.

A nice, quiet end.

Infinitely better than it had been five days ago, no shaking hands, no burn in his throat, no long build up or paralysing terror. Just a slow fade.

He withdrew his fingers from underneath the bedclothes and slowly leant forward, reaching out desperately towards the iodine.

His fingers had brushed the cold, glass surface of the bottle, yearning, straining for it, almost there when— Marian walked back into the room, a roll of surgical tape in her hand.

Alex snatched his hand back from where it hovered in mid-air as though it had been burned and buried it under the blankets, clenching his nails hard into his palms and feeling the skin sting and split. His heart was racing in his chest like it was about to burst through his ribcage and he could feel his blood thumping hot in his ears.

 _Shit, shit, shit, shit._

He averted his eyes to his lap and squeezed his nails into his palm harder, terrified. He was sure he'd be in trouble now, sure the Washingtons would be called, sure that he'd just bought himself an even longer stay in the hospital's psych ward.

Marian said nothing. He could feel her eyes on him as she moved closer and crouched down next to his bed. Her hands were back on the bandages around his arm, taping them securely and adjusting them to a comfortable tightness.

"I— do you still want to do the extra tests now? I can do the necessary ones and leave the others till tomorrow if you'd like?"

Alex's stomach tightened and he nodded, feeling his nails become sticky and warm with blood. She knew.

"Yeah... I'm tired."

Marian nodded and set aside the iodine, placing it carefully into the tray and moving it onto the bedside table. Then, she went through all the normal tests. She'd done these since he'd woken up a few days ago.

She checked his pulse, put flashlight to his eyes and asked him to spell a long word backwards (Yesterday afternoon it had felt like she was just messing with him when she asked him to spell 'psychoanalysis' backwards).

Marian, today though, didn't chat while she took the tests. The word to spell backwards was just his name, a routine one, it didn't seem like a joke. Her face was set in a frown and she left the room five minutes later with a brief goodbye and a reminder that dinner was in twenty minutes.

He lessened his harsh grip on his palm, feeling his nails withdraw slightly from his skin. He couldn't believe what he'd just done, or rather, what he'd just tried to do. If Marian hadn't come in when she had, he would have drunk the entire bottle, he _knew_ he would have. Because he was rash, spontaneous, unpredictable, selfish, fickle, stupid...

A rather sizeable part of him was frustrated, angry, disappointed that he hadn't done it, but a larger part felt so overwhelmingly _guilty_ that it physically hurt.

How could he have considered such a thing? How could he allow the Washingtons to bring him to hospital, worry so much about him, pay for his stay here and just... Waste it all, have it all be done in vain. Disappoint them _again_.

That was the thing. He knew they were disappointed in him. None of them said it, but he saw it in their eyes when they looked at his bandaged arm or the drip that fed into his vein. He'd told them he'd try to stop cutting himself, that he'd make an effort to eat more, work less.

Of course, when did Alexander ever do anything that didn't compromise his mental health and better judgement?

The people he loved should know by now that he couldn't keep promises, especially ones that guaranteed his own well being.

He just hadn't had the strength to stop. He hated himself for it. When he'd started cutting himself, nearly three years ago now, he'd always assured himself that he'd be able to quit it if he wanted to. It had been a coping mechanism, something that hurt him but didn't kill him, something to prevent him from taking another bunch of pills or partaking in some other such mode of self-destruction.

It, evidently, had not been enough.

Obviously, for him, slicing away at his own skin was too light a punishment, too sweet a pain. It made him feel sick.

He picked up his copy of _The Goblet Of Fire_ and opened it to a random page, staring at the words but not actually taking in a single one of them in. He couldn't concentrate on the blur of thoughts buzzing around in his head, let alone a book. It just felt better to be holding something rather than merely sitting there, staring blankly at the wall.

Dinner came, as promised, twenty minutes later. It was pasta, which was fine. Alex might eat it on a normal day, if he were not so preoccupied and his appetite not so completely diminished by the day's events.

Too much had happened, he felt as though all the events of today could have comfortably fit into a week, or even a month. Twenty four hours and he had already planned a third suicide attempt, albeit spontaneously, reconnected with his estranged brother and made amends —kissed even— with a boy he'd thought despised him

Marian was acting as quietly concerned as she had a half an hour prior and gave him his meal with a brief, almost false looking smile and a furrowed brow. When she came back another half an hour later to find his food essentially untouched, she'd looked more wearisome than ever.

"Alex, you told me you'd eat anything but bacon."

He shrugged and pushed a piece of pasta around his plate with his fork, not looking at the nurse, far too well acquainted with the look of disappointment he'd no doubt find in her eyes to need to see it for himself.

"If you don't eat your meals you won't put on weight and you'll only stay here longer. You don't want to be fed by a drip, do you?"

He shook his head and bit his lip, his stomach clenching with the familiarity of it all. She sounded just like Martha, or George, or Lafayette, or John. That was a rather long list of people, he vaguely thought.

This was the sternest Marian had ever spoken to him. Normally any instruction was prefaced with a joke or disguised by a friendly smile. It was a testament to her concern (or annoyance, as Alexander told himself) that she was taking this tone with him.

He speared a piece of food on the end of his fork and began to eat. It had gone cool, but he supposed that didn't really matter. He wouldn't have enjoyed it anyway, he wasn't eating for the taste. He wasn't even really eating for himself.

"Thank you, Alex."

He looked up, another forkful of food halfway to his mouth, and saw that she was smiling. It was a warm one, not forced. Definitely still concerned, not complacent or casual in the slightest, but at the very least not false looking.

He thought that maybe, just maybe, Marian was making him a little less scared of hospitals.

He forced a smile back, trying desperately to make it reach his eyes. He though he at least half succeeded; it helped that he meant it.

"How long do you need, shall I come back in fifteen?"

Alex nodded and ate another mouthful, swallowing quickly so he didn't have to taste the rather off-putting flavour of cold, hospital pasta.

"See you then."

She smiled again and walked out of the room, leaving Alex, once again to his thoughts.

* * *

John's phone had been buzzing all throughout dinner. The Mulligans had a no phones at the table policy, so he'd only checked momentarily who it had been from. His worries were abated, however, when the missed calls hadn't been from Martha, George or Lafayette, instead, a rather unexpected person. Eliza Schuyler.

Hercules shot him a concerned look from across the table as John surreptitiously checked his phone but John shook his head, hoping to alleviate his friends' worries of Alexander. These days, any time they got a call or text message, the numerous unspoken uncertainties hung over them like clouds. Would it be something from George or Martha, bad news about Alex? John could never forget the call he'd gotten five days ago, the call that had woken him up to Lafayette's sobbing, almost incomprehensible French.

He finished dinner at his usual pace, not too concerned about getting back to Eliza instantly. She would probably ask him about homework or something, maybe she just wanted to hang out. Phillip Jr's birthday was in, well, January, but the Schuylers were known for their rather elaborate parties. John was sure the reason would be something relatively unimportant.

He rinsed off his plate in the kitchen, thanked Mrs. Mulligan for the food and flopped back down on the sofa in the living room. The room had sort of become John's own place now. He kept it tidy, so people could still use the TV and the sofa while he was out, but looking around at his things set neatly on top of the cupboards and surfaces, it was obvious someone was using this place as a makeshift home.

He checked his phone. He had three missed calls from Eliza and one text, asking him to call her back. They were all from around ten minutes ago, and her icon showed that she was still available.

He called her number and it had barely rung for three seconds before she picked up, her familiar tone rang loudly from his phone.

"John, thank God, I've been trying to get a hold of you or Laf all day!"

John lay back into a more comfortable position and nodded, shifting over to accommodate Hercules, who was turning on Netflix.

"Yeah, sorry about that. We've been busy."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. You haven't been in all week, which is why I'm calling."

John's throat tightened and he shot Hercules a wary look, sitting up a little straighter on the sofa.

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. I've heard some stuff about Alex, just wondering what's happened and whether he's alright."

Hercules motioned towards the phone and mouthed "put it on speaker," at John, his brows furrowed and his head tilted in equal parts concern and confusion. John conceded to this request and Eliza's clear voice sounded again from the phone, unmistakably frustrated.

"Are you going to tell me what's going on?"

Hercules looked from the phone to John, his eyes wide in abject horror. He shook his head vigorously and Eliza cleared her throat, John could imagine her expression well enough. Eyebrows raised, mouth set in a firm line foot tapping impatiently.

"I- uhh... Alex is sick."

There was an exaggerated sigh on Eliza's end and Hercules winced, his hand digging into his pocket for his own phone.

"I know that, that bit's pretty obvious, but why are you off, and why aren't Laf and Alex at home?"

John cursed Eliza for her insatiable curiosity and care for her friends, it was admirable, but presently, inconvenient.

"Laf... Laf should be home by now, I don't- Hey, how come you know he's not home, did you go over?"

Hercules was texting furiously, his head bent low over his phone. John supposed he was talking to either Lafayette, George or Martha.

"Home? From where? He wasn't at school."

Eliza's voice was sharp, she caught everything. It was insanely aggravating. It made it difficult to hide things from her.

"I-I... I can't talk about this right now, 'Liza."

Hercules looked up from his phone and held it out to John, showing him the texts on the screen there.

 _Lafrançaise (just now): Bordel de merde._

 _Lafrançaise (just now): You can't tell her without consulting Alex._

 _Lafrançaise (just now): Stall._

 _Hercules-Mulligan (just now): She's pretty set on finding out the truth._

 _Lafrançaise (just now): Just tell her he's sick._

 _Hercules-Mulligan (just now): We did! She said she went to yours. She wants to know where you are._

 _Lafran_ _ç_ _aise (just now): Tell her to call me tomorrow afternoon, don't say anything else. I'll have to go to Alex._

John read the texts quickly, holding the phone to his ear with one hand. He nodded and responded to Eliza then, trying his best to make his tone firmer, more decisive.

"Laf says to call him tomorrow afternoon, I- I can't say any more."

"Is he in hospital? Is it because of what happened in math class last week? Is that why Laf wasn't home, was he with him?"

John looked wide-eyed at Hercules, dumbfounded at how precisely Eliza had figured everything out.

"Look, just... Laf will get back to you. I have to go."

John hung up, dropped his phone as though it had burned his hand and looked in fear at Hercules, taking his face in his hands. He groaned and shook his head in exasperation.

"How the hell do we deal with this, then?"

Hercules pinched the bridge of his nose and shrugged, slowly shaking his own head.

"Laf's right, we can't tell her anything without Alex knowing. I didn't even know they were that close."

John leaned his head against the soft suede of the sofa and closed his eyes.

"They're close, I guess. Alex likes her, Eliza cares for all her friends. It's no surprise really— that she'd call."

Hercules nodded again and rested against the stiff armrest of the sofa. John's hoodie had fallen between the cushion and the main body of the couch, he pulled it out and tugged it on. Suddenly, he felt inexplicably, very cold.

"I... He's been through enough already and when he eventually goes back, people will be asking questions, assuming things, spreading rumours. It's not fair."

Hercules hummed in agreement and used his foot to drag the remote control towards them. He turned on some Netflix show John only vaguely recognised, it didn't seem very good anyway. But it was something to watch.

"High school basically has a twenty-four-hour news cycle, though. It shouldn't take so long before it dies out, if we don't address it.

John shrugged, not one hundred percent sure if this would be the case. But he didn't want to contradict his friend, so he stayed quiet.

He thought about Alex. He'd probably have finished all the books they'd brought him a few days ago. He was probably sitting, alone, bored, with nothing to do. While John was here, in the comfort of a friend's house, watching TV, able to do as he liked.

It made him feel, though perhaps unreasonably, guilty. He should be visiting Alex more, way more. He should be there, for Alex, for Laf.

If he caused this, he should at the very least _try_ to help.

* * *

Marian's shift ended ten minutes ago. The ward was mostly dark, it was just after eight and only the lights in one or two patients' rooms were on. She poked her head into Alexander's room one last time, his light was one of the few still on.

"I'm leaving now, good night, Alex."

The teen looked up from his book and gave a small smile. It looked forced to Marian, admittedly, it probably was.

Both of them were silently thinking about the incident of earlier that day, the one involving the iodine. It was the first time something like that had happened to Marian, in the year she'd been working as a licensed nurse she'd treated overdoses and suicidal patients before, but never had one try to hurt themselves in hospital custody.

Alexander was uncharted waters. A nice kid, obviously well loved, but troubled. It was painful, to see the situation from all sides, to be impartial. That was the trouble with working with kids and young people. She loved them, that was why she took the job, but it hurt so much to see them hurt, or worse.

"Night."

She smiled and walked back down the corridor, her footsteps quiet on the linoleum. She had one more place to stop before she went home, something imperative to do that she hadn't gotten around to during her shift.

Doctor Hosack's office was at the very end of the corridor, he was the head doctor of the childrens' psychiatric ward, a hard-working, kind man who'd hired Marian from med school a year ago. The light was on in his office, shining softly through the glass pane in the door.

She walked up to it, knocked three times and allowed herself in. Dr. Hosack was working on his computer, he looked up as Marian walked in and smiled, pushing his glasses down his nose in a kindly sort of manner.

"Just got off?"

She smiled and nodded, closing the door behind her and walking over to his desk.

"Yeah, I just wanted to talk about one of the patients, Alexander Hamilton."

Dr. Hosack nodded and leaned forward on his desk, listening attentively. His shift had probably ended too, but that almost never stopped him from talking to his colleagues or doing whatever extra he could to help the nurses on night or evening shifts.

"I haven't been in to see him in a few days, how is he doing?"

Marian bit her lip, now came the difficult bit. She knew she had to tell her superior about the incident that had transpired earlier, but it was difficult, she'd never been in a situation like this before.

"He's doing alright, physically. His heart rate and breathing are regular, he'll eat if I persuade him to. Just..."

She broke off, shrugged, shook off any doubts and anxieties and continued.

"I was changing his bandages earlier this evening, reapplying the iodine and the usual, when I realised I'd forgotten the surgical tape. I left the room to grab some and when I came back, he was about to take the bottle of iodine tincture. His hand was touching it, but as soon as he saw me, he snatched it back. I think he'd have drunk it if I hadn't walked in when I did. He acted strangely from there on in, it's worrying."

Dr. Hosack sucked a breath in through clamped teeth and watched Marian sympathetically for a few moments.

"Do you think he's ready to see Warren? He's young, I thought we could give him sometime before he talks to someone but it seems his situation is pretty bad."

Marian nodded and played with her hospital lanyard absently.

"He's ready, I think. He's still weak, but the real physical danger's pretty much passed now."

Dr. Hosack nodded again and picked up a pen, pulling his planner towards him. Because of course, he had a physical planner. Marian mostly recorded things on her phone or work computer, but Hosack was a little more old-fashioned.

"I'll go round to Warren tomorrow morning tell her to clear an hour for as soon a date as she can. Give the patient a heads up though, we wouldn't want to spring this on him."

Marian nodded and straightened up, adjusting her scrubs and smiling tiredly. It had been another draining day, she longer than nine to five hours and a much harder job than most. Though, more rewarding than most.

"Night, Doctor."

Hosack smiled, reaching under his desk to shut down his computer.

"Night, Marian. Get some sleep, you deserve it."

Marian smiled and walked from the office.

* * *

The clinking of cutlery and china echoed throughout the silent room, the movement of the polished tableware casting dancing spots of reflected light around the family seated at the table.

"Did you make any progress with the lead on Washington?"

Isabella Lee's knife glinted as she cut into a piece of meat, a tall, pale woman with a high forehead and a straight nose, resembling her son in her cold good-looks.

"Yes, but his 'personal issue' was just one of his kids in hospital. Interesting, but not useful, you can't use kids as a weapon, reflects badly on—"

He was cut off as Charles Lee, sat opposite his mother, choked on his drink, pounding at his throat as he spluttered into his glass.

"Charles?"

The teenager swallowed, grimaced and looked up, setting down his fork.

"Sorry— which one? Lafayette or Hamilton?"

His father looked strangely at him, frowned and then shrugged.

"The new one, Washington took him in over the summer. He's in your year, isn't he?"

Charles nodded, his mind working furiously.

"Yeah, they both are. Do you know why?"

John Lee regarded him with a stern look for a moment before waving his hand dismissively and taking another sip of his wine. It was an expensive type, Malbec, Charles thought.

"No. We're looking into that. It will most likely be something mundane. Do you know anything?"

Charles looked at his food, pushed some around on his plate with the tip of his fork.

"Last week he passed out in maths class, haven't seen him since."

John Lee raised an eyebrow and cut up a piece of stake.

"Oh, did he now?"

"Yeah. I don't know, he's a scrawny guy. Always looks ill."

"Interesting."

John Lee fell silent, a look of self-satisfaction that Charles couldn't quite place on his face.

* * *

 _"Alex, dear, you wouldn't mind taking the pasta off? I'm worried it will burn."_

 _"Sure thing."_

 _Katherine's smile is warm but tired, a brief tear of thin lips. She sits on the scruffy armchair in the living room, a crossword by her wrinkled, veined hand, The TV hums the news faintly in the background. The apartment is warm, the street outside lit by a few, glowing lanterns. He grins, walks lightly to the kitchen and flicks on the light. A pot boils on the hob, bubbling quietly like a forest brook. It steams, the glass lid all fogged up._

 _He hums as he turns off the heat, tips out the water and strains the pasta. As it cools, he heats some sauce in the microwave and sets about scrubbing the pot. Katherine told him to just take the pot off, but he'll do the rest too. They both like their pasta the same way and she seems tired. She only finished half of today's crossword_ — _left eighteen to thirty-two down blank._

 _He mixes the sauce, pours it over the pasta and adds salt and cheese. He pulls a tray from the cupboard, hums a song he doesn't recognise and fills two glasses up with water._

 _He walks through the hall carefully, making sure not to spill of the water or let the plates tilt too far on the tray. He nudges open the sitting room door, the people on CNN are still debating heatedly about gentrification in Brooklyn. He's going to tape it, watch it later._

 _Katherine's head hangs on her chest, her hand relaxed on the chair and her body still. She'd seemed tired all today, he'll feel bad waking her for dinner. Alex sets down the tray on the table and walks over to the armchair._

 _He crouches down, touches her shoulder lightly._

 _"Hey, dinner's ready."_

 _She does nothing. He frowns, touches her hand and tries to catch a glimpse of her face. Her skin is cool, clammy even._

 _"Katherine?"_

 _She remains still, he shakes her slightly and leans closer. He can hear her breathing. It sounds... It sounds like rattling, like wind whistling through a deserted building. It chills him._

 _Then, she slumps forward. He's there instantly to catch her as her body slackens. He reaches out his arms to support her and her head rests against his chest._

 _"Katherine!"_

 _Then, she starts to cough. Hacking, heaving sounds like she's dragging them up from her very stomach, deep inside her. They sound painful, grating, agonising even. He's shaking her, cursing in Spanish, he has no idea what to do. When the coughing finally ends, it must be after several minutes, he guides her carefully back into the armchair, terrified._

 _There's blood on her lips, he looks down. His shirt is covered in it where her head had lolled. Red stains, like he's just killed somebody, like he's just slit someone's throat. She coughs again, blood dribbles from between her lips._

Alex awoke with a yell on his lips. He heard his cry die, caught only it's tail-end as it echoed around the room. For a minute, he was back in Mrs. Newson's home, the bedroom he shared with Ned. For a minute, he expected to hear Mrs. Newson's footsteps on the stairs, her slap on his face.

A second later, he came back to himself, where he was, that he wasn't thirteen years old again. It did nothing to slow his breathing, which was only accelerating. He bit down hard into his fist, his incisor dug into his skin, it might cut if there were more flesh over his bone. There were racing footsteps in the corridor, they echoed ominously and though he knew he was not in his first home, that it would be a nurse rather than Mrs. Newson, he couldn't help but cower away.

The door burst open and Marian ran in, instantly at his side. This, unsurprisingly, only exacerbated the anticipation for impending punishment, of pain, that he was expecting.

"Are you alright? Are you hurt?"

He shook his head and groaned into his hands, trying to take deep breaths and gather himself so that he could speak.

"I'm... alright."

She seemed to realise what was happening quickly, that he wasn't in fact physically hurt so much as teetering on the verge of a panic attack. She crouched by his bed, one hand steadying his shoulder as he took long deep breaths. Her expression was patient, understanding. Alexander supposed she did work in a psych ward, she was probably used to guiding teens through panic attacks.

Eventually, he released his knuckle from his teeth's sharp bite and closed his eyes, allowing the panic and urgency to ebb away.

"I'm sorry," he finally managed to mumble, pushing some hair from his face and shifting away from Marian.

"Don't apologise. Did you have a nightmare?"

He nodded and rubbed his knuckles, hands skating over bruising flesh and tooth shaped indents.

"Do you need anything? Water?"

He shook his head, stopped and then bit his lip, steeling himself.

"I... It'd be nice to take a shower."

She frowned slightly, "That's possible, I'd just have to get all this off first," she motioned at the tubes that lead into Alex's arm and the canula he still had to help him breathe.

"I can do that today, though. As soon as I can."

He nodded, pulled the band from his hair and retied it all up again. With the band John had given him, he realised, as he smoothed some baby hairs around his forehead down.

"Thank you. I'm— I'm sorry I yelled, I don't normally, If I do again, you don't need to come. You can ignore it."

Marian smiled and shook her head, "Alex, I'm a nurse, I think I'd be doing my job pretty badly if I _didn't_ come."

He shrugged and drew his knees up to his chest, watching the light spill in through the blinds beside him.

"I realise I never asked whether you preferred Alex or Alexander... Or something else?"

He shrugged and wiped some sleep from his eye, yawned.

"My friends call me Alex. Everyone else usually says Alexander."

Marian nodded and straightened up, "Well, Alexander—"

His nose scrunched up slightly and he narrowed his eyes contemplatively. He shrugged, looked away from the nurse and tugged at his wristband.

"You... You can call me Alex, if you want."

Marian smiled.


	35. Chapter 34

**Hey, thanks for all your reviews!**

 **Guest: Oh, I know what he looked like, but this is a modern fanfic, so I'm going with the characters as people of colour, like in the musical. I know he looked like that in real life, if you look at my other historical fic, you'll see his appearance there is constant with that of the real man. I mean, I think you'll be hard pressed to find a full blood Puerto Rican with red hair and blue eyes.**

 **Guest: Haha, just you wait. It only gets... worse.**

 **Guest: (: Thanks**

 **Anyway, trigger warnings: hospitals, injections/ taking blood, brief mention of suicide, psychiatry, brief mention of abuse.**

Lafayette had never been a tactful sort of person. His blunt words and unintentionally offensive observations often got him into trouble and he didn't like to sugar coat things. It wasn't in his nature to be flowery and economic with the truth, his rather literal grasp of the English language only served to exemplify this. None of these things did him any favours currently, not with the Eliza situation, nor with the Alex one, both requiring at least a slight degree of caution.

He didn't know how he was going to bring any of this up to Alex when they next saw each other, later in the day. He didn't know how Eliza would react to the truth, if Alex decided he wanted her to know, and he didn't know what he would do if Alexander chose the opposing option.

He was in his room, sprawled out across his bed, shirtless and freshly showered. His phone played music loudly, his window was open. It was mid-morning, the final birds — the ones that hadn't deserted the state for the south in the steadily colder weather — chirped.

Martha and George were in the lounge downstairs, evidently talking about something not meant for his ears. He'd gone down earlier, sat with them to watch some TV, but they'd been acting strange, looking at each other from across the room with that knowing expression adults always took on in front of teenagers when they were hiding something. He'd left eventually, under the guise of homework

He'd not done much yesterday evening after coming back from visiting Alexander. Read a little, texted John. He'd told him about what their conversation had been about the other day. When he and Alex had spoken in Spanish at the hospital. So _cariño_ meant baby. Sweet.

As he lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling, he heard slight movement in the hallway outside his bedroom and felt something small weigh down on his bed next to him. There was the soft rub of fur against his leg and he smiled, reaching out and lifting the cat up by his stomach and pulling him towards him.

"Salut, Lex."

He'd come to call the kitten Lex, merely because it often felt a little strange to call Alex's name and having a tiny little cat come running. It was disconcerting, hearing himself say the teenager's name but knowing he wasn't there. Besides, Lex was a better name for a cat.

Lex rubbed his head affectionately against Lafayette's chin and purred, stepping lightly on the teenager's chest and sniffing at his hair. Lafayette had washed it that morning, the cat had probably never smelt coconut shampoo.

"Tu aimes mes cheveux?"

 _You like my hair?_

The cat reached out his tiny paw and pushed it into Lafayette's afro, as though testing the feel of it. Evidently, he liked it, because a moment later he'd lifted his second paw to bat at a curl lying across Lafayette's forehead. Lafayette laughed and tickled the cat behind his ears.

"Aww, minou-minou."

 _kitty-kitty_

Then, Lex's paw got stuck. His claw had somehow become tangled in one of Lafayette's curls and he was frantically trying to pull it away, tugging sharply at Lafayette's hair.

"Ow!"

The cat tugged harder and miaowed angrily, leaning in to bite Lafayette's wrist where he'd reached up to untangle his hair.

"Merde! Arrête!"

 _Shit, stop!_

The cat finally got away, taking, Lafayette thought, a few strands of his own hair with him. He sighed and rubbed the cat along his back, thought of Alex again.

"I hope Alex likes you..."

The cat miaowed and hopped lightly off his bed, Lafayette heard his footsteps pad softly away down the corridor and then, he was alone again.

* * *

"It's not too soon? I don't know George..."

Martha frowned as she stirred her tea, watching the milk turn it a warm beige colour and steam rise form its surface. George was sat beside her, both of them still in pyjamas, drinking his own mug of coffee.

"It's only been a few months, but his circumstance is totally different to Gilbert's."

Martha had to agree, she shrugged and pulled at the sleeves of her jumper. She just wasn't so sure about making such a big decision so soon, even if she knew logically it would work out best for everyone.

"Gilbert had lost his parents so recently, that's why we waited. With Alexander, well, he's nearly sixteen now. There's no point in leaving it any longer."

"I want to do this, I just don't know if he will."

George's arm found her shoulders and she leaned against him, watching the silver morning light filter softly through the steam from her mug of tea.

"I think he will. He's got Laf here, Hercules, _John_."

George put slight emphasis on that last name and Martha laughed quietly, picked up some toast from her plate and chewed thoughtfully.

"Mmhhm, I think so too. We should let him think about it though, before we call Mr. Knox again."

George's hand rubbed circles into her shoulder and she felt him nod, his stubble was prickly against her cheek.

"Of course, we'll wait until he's out of hospital. But I think this is the right move, I think he'll be happy here."

Martha pressed a quick kiss to his jaw and finished the last of her toast, dusting a few crumbs off her lap.

"I love you."

"I love you too."

* * *

Alex didn't wince as Marian took blood, nor did he flinch when she removed the drip from the vein in his forearm. He was far too glad to have it out to feel any pain regarding the damned thing. The canula he'd become used to in his last few days of consciousness too was gone. It felt good to be able to move freely, breathe on his own. Now all that was left to do was to shower and wear his own clothes, then he'd feel like Alexander again.

Only, he had to wait until Lafayette visited later in the day and brought some clothes with him. He could shower first though, finally, after days of lying in bed he could stand, walk to a bathroom, wash his hair. Feel more human. He wanted the shower to be cold, though. It'd feel like it was summer again on Nevis, when the water ran cool at best because of the heat. He remembered their shower, old-fashioned, light blue tiles. Taps with little star handles, an age-spotted mirror, best buy shampoo.

Marian smiled apologetically as she withdrew the needle from where she'd been taking blood. Alex returned it, drumming his fingers lightly against the metal bar around his bed. He was sat up, legs crossed beneath him, rolling his neck. He had knots in his back from how tense he'd been in the last few days, that and his rather sedentary state recently.

"Feels good to be able to move a bit."

Marian sealed the needle into a small plastic bag and grinned at him, preparing to pick up his breakfast tray. He'd eaten pretty well that morning, which he thought he could at least partially attribute to Marian's watchful eye and a fair portion of guilt on his part. Marian lifted his tray and stood by his bed, watching him silently for a moment.

"Hey, I talked to Dr. Hosack last night."

Alex paused where he was rolling the joints of his shoulders and clenched his jaw, avoiding eye-contact.

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. He's asked one of the ward's psychiatrists Dr. Warren to come around sometime today or tomorrow."

Dr. Warren. Dr. Samantha Warren, Alex knew her. She was the dark haired one, the one he'd seen within days of arriving in Virginia, after he'd had that brief fainting spell. He remembered her being nice, in a stern sort of way. She'd seemed like a rarity for most doctors, she hadn't patronised him just because he was a teenager.

"I know her. Saw her in the summer."

Marian smiled, looked relieved.

"That's good. She's a nice woman, nothing to worry about."

Alex pulled his arm up high and stretched the muscles of his upper back, wincing slightly.

"Not worried," he lied, maintaining an unconcerned expression.

"Of course not."

Alexander dropped his arm and watched the view out the window for a few moments. It was over the few streets surrounding the hospital. A gas station in the distance, some office blocks to the west and a park in the distant east.

"So, about that shower?" He asked hopefully, turning to look back at Marian with a small smile.

"Let me get rid of these."

She nodded down at the things held in her arms and left the room, footsteps echoing down the quiet corridor. This ward wasn't usually noisy. He remembered hearing yelling once at night, maybe three days ago. It had been a girl's voice, woken him up. He supposed it was a psych ward, and he'd yelled out one night too. That sort of stuff was standard.

He showered about ten minutes later in a bathroom a few doors down from his room. It was pleasantly cool, refreshing, with soap that smelled like honeycomb. It would be nice to kiss John again when he smelt a little better, when his hair was less lanky and flat, when he had softer skin.

Lafayette came around at about quarter to twelve, bringing Martha and George with him. The latter two of the trio had gone to speak with Dr. Hosack for a little while, so Alex was left with Gilbert.

"How you doing?"

Alex shrugged and smiled, tugging at a strand of damp hair.

"Got all those drips out, showered. I feel better."

Lafayette nodded and crossed his legs on his chair. It felt a little less awkward this time, because Alex was sat up properly. Hair washed, canula gone, he looked better.

"How's John? Is he coming today?"

Lafayette grinned and pulled at one of the buttons on his shirt. It was honestly heartwarming to watch how his two friends asked after each other, if not a little sad. They were so lucky to have each other, reminded him of someone he'd been pining after for a while. Made him a little envious, in the least malicious way possible.

"I think so, yeah. He mentioned he wanted to."

Alex smiled and pulled at the sleeves of his hoodie. Lafayette had, per his request, brought him some clothes. Jeans, a t-shirt and a hoodie. It made all the difference.

"Anyway, there was something I needed to mention to you..."

Alex looked up from his hoodie sleeves and raised his eyebrows in a sort of 'oh?' expression. Lafayette gulped.

"Yeah?"

"It's just that," he shrugged and pushed some hair from his face awkwardly, "well, you know Eliza Schuyler?"

"Yeah, course I do."

"She's been asking us about where you've been. Somehow, she's figured out quite a lot. That you're in hospital, that we're off school because of visiting you, that it has something to do with you collapsing in math class the other week."

He let all this out in a rush, words tripping and scrambling over each other in their haste to leave his mouth. He twisted the button on his cuff as he spoke, holding his breath as soon as he'd finished speaking and not looking up at Alex.

"Should have known."

His voice, contrary to the surprised, fearful tone Lafayette had expected, was wry, humoured even.

"Huh?"

Lafayette was a little taken aback when he looked up to see a smile on Alexander's face. It wasn't a particularly strong one, it was a little resigned, but it was there nonetheless.

"Just that, of course Eliza's been up to some Nancy Drew shit. I mean, I'll talk to her, tell her what happened, it's just so _her._ "

Lafayette laughed in surprise and nodded, his ponytail bobbed up and down and his teeth gleamed.

"You're right, it's very like her. She asked me to call her to tell her what was happening, but would you rather something different?"

Alex sucked on his lip for a moment, as though thinking. He shuffled in his position on the bed and pulled the blankets over his knees more wholly.

"Well, she can always come see me. Now that I don't look so pathetic, I probably won't scare her away."

Lafayette frowned at the statement and pushed his shoulder gently, "you were never pathetic. But I think her seeing you might be good."

Alex nodded and leant back on his hands, his back facing the window.

"I thought that would be a lot harder than it was."

Alex shrugged at Lafayette's words, his narrow shoulders were drowned a little in fabric, but his posture seemed relaxed at least.

"I don't know, if she cared enough to ask around about me, I can probably trust her. Anyway, you guys trust her, and I trust you."

He went slightly pink at the end of this sentence and Lafayette smiled. He knew Alex trusted him, John and Herc too, but it was nice to hear him say it. Especially when he knew Alex didn't give out trust easily. He held eye contact with Alex for only a moment, didn't want to embarrass him. The shorter teen rolled his eyes and went back to fiddling with the string on his hoodie.

"I said I'd call her today. Shall I tell her to drop by sometime?"

Alex nodded and thumbed through a book from his bedside table, one he'd already finished.

"Next time you're in, can you bring some more stuff for me to read?"

Lafayette grinned and nodded, sticking his hands in his pockets.

"Sure. I go back to school on Monday, if you give me your library card I can get whatever you want."

Alex smiled, "It's in my school bag. I'm partial to Kafka, if you get the chance."

Martha and George came in a quarter of an hour later, both with similar expressions of disguised dismay and exhaustion. Alexander immediately knew why. He couldn't attempt to drink a bottle of iodine and expect no repercussions, of course the Washingtons would be told. Lafayette was shrewd, good at reading people. He evidently noticed this, though said nothing. Probably more for Alex's sake than his parents'.

They stayed an hour or so longer, talking about inutile sorts of things. Alexander asked George about the latest on the senate campaign, because despite his reticence concerning conversation with the man and the vague awkwardness between them, he couldn't help but be curious about that sort of thing. They stayed while he ate lunch, greeted Marian and left at around one.

Later that day, Marian comes around with news he knew logically was inevitable but had dreaded nonetheless. Dr. Warren had arranged to see him at three. He knew this was standard procedure after an attempt, he'd seen a hospital psychiatrist once before, hadn't enjoyed it very much. He'd been sanctimonious, acted like he knew Alex better than he did himself.

When the time rolled around, after a solid hour of bitten fingernails and sudden bursts of sharp-breathed anxiety, there was a knock on his door. He didn't really know what to say, Marian never knocked. He sat up against the wall behind his bed and cleared his throat awkwardly.

"Yeah?"

Warren walked in, exactly as he remembered her. Dark hair, late thirties, stern face and kind eyes.

"Afternoon."

He nodded in response, shifting backwards as she took a seat in the chair Lafayette vacated an hour ago.

"We've met before, I recognised your name when Dr. Hosack emailed me."

She smiled slightly, it wasn't like Martha's, wide and warm, or like John's, secretive, like an inside joke. It was understanding, almost.

"Yeah...I saw you in the summer."

Warren smiled again and Alexander subconsciously drew his knees up to his chest, eyeing her clipboard. He'd never liked talking to psychiatrists, from the limited experience he had with them. He didn't hold anything against people who went to them, he just didn't know how people trusted strangers with details they wouldn't even tell their family.

"I remember. So, what's changed since then?"

Alex shrugged, looked her right in the eyes. If he had to do this, he wasn't going to be one of those people that beat around the bush.

"Well, a few days ago I took a load of pills. I'd say that's pretty important."

Dr. Warren nodded, wrote something down on the clipboard in front of her. Alex instantly wanted to know what it was, craned his neck forwards to try to read her writing.

"What are you writing?"

Warren looked up and smiled again, evidently a little amused.

"That you're forthright about what happened."

He frowned and shrugged, sitting back against the wall and playing with the string of his hoodie. This woman meant little to him, he had no reason to be shy about telling her about his attempt. He couldn't disappoint her. _Ah_. That might be why people talk to psychiatrists rather than family.

"Yeah. Sometimes."

She raised an eyebrow, "sometimes?"

Alex narrowed his eyes. This wasn't going exactly how he'd expected. Not bad, rather different. He'd not thought he'd be asked questions, rather assumed he'd be talked to, told what was wrong with him and ordered to take a certain type of pill.

"Yeah... I don't talk about it to Laf."

Warren sat back a little on her chair and crossed her legs.

"'Laf' is..."

"My foster brother."

She inclined her head, jot down the detail on her clipboard.

"Why don't you talk to him about it?"

He sighed, pushed some hair behind his ear. Now came the whole _'feelings'_ part of it. Psychiatrists were always asking 'why?', 'why?', why?'.

"Well, obviously, it's not a very easy subject is it?"

Warren shrugged and watched him for a few moments, as though she was waiting for him to say something else. He didn't.

"Do you talk to anyone about it?"

Alex picked at a last piece of skin around his nail, he'd bitten the rest off.

"Well, it's not been very long, has it."

"What about before, if you needed to talk to someone, did you?"

Alex watched a tiny pinprick of blood appear where he'd pulled at the skin.

"Not really."

"Not really?"

Alex wanted to groan. Did she have to pick apart every word he said? Did he need to reiterate?

"No, then."

Dr. Warren smiled and he replaced his leg beneath him slightly, a little uncomfortable. How long would she be here?

"So what did you do instead of talking to someone?"

Alex thought this was pretty obvious, if she'd read his file. If she so much as looked around a little.

"I try to cope and if I can't, well. I'm here. That should speak for itself."

Dr. Warren tipped her head to the side slightly, "how do you try to cope?"

He noticed then that he'd been tapping his foot against the side of his bed, incessantly. He stopped.

"I don't know. I just get on with things."

"So you block everything out?"

"You could say that."

"And what would _you_ say?"

Alex nearly laughed. He quickly settled into a small smile and shrugged. He almost liked her.

"I'd say that it doesn't really work, which is why I'm here."

Warren jotted another sentence or two down on her clipboard and used her ankle to tug her chair a little closer to Alex.

"So, about here. How do you find it?"

Alex wrinkled his brow. 'How does he find it?'. Was he supposed to have any other opinion of this place than hating it?

"I'm having the time of my life."

Dr. Warren smiled slightly and watched him for another moment or two, again, as though she was waiting for him to elaborate. When he didn't, she continued.

"I didn't expect you to say you liked it, I mean, how do you feel here? What about it don't you like?"

He shrugged, the little plastic end of his hoodie string had split.

"I don't like being treated like I'm delicate and I don't like not being able to do my own thing."

He was almost surprised at how much he was telling her. It was pretty obvious stuff, but he'd never thought he'd be anything but rude to a therapist. He didn't know what he'd expected. Not quite this, that was certain.

"I understand that, but you do know you're quite ill?"

He shrugged and nodded, slightly defeated.

"I guess, but I don't need people's pity or whatever."

Warren wrote this down on her clipboard, Alex wondered what she was going to do with it all.

"What do you do with all that?"

Warren set her pen back beneath the silver clip.

"Just for reference, no one sees it but me. All this is private."

Alex nodded almost infinitesimally and surveyed the woman, waiting for whatever she had next to say. He wasn't exactly vying for monopoly in this conversation.

"Who visits you while you're here?"

Alex watches the shadow of a person pass the door, unrecognisable through the frosted pane.

"Martha and George, they're my foster parents and Lafayette, John and Hercules; friends."

He wasn't going to get into whatever was going on between himself and John. He wasn't sure whether he'd call them boyfriends, but there was certainly a mutual liking and understanding between them.

"Every day?"

He nodded and crossed his legs beneath him. He was glad to be back in his own clothes.

"Do you like your foster parents?"

Alex wondered if she thought he'd say no. Even if he did dislike George and Martha, he wouldn't say it.

"Yeah. They're great."

"And other foster parents, before now?"

Alex grimaced slightly and shrugged again. One of these days, his shoulders would stick in that position.

"It varied. Some were nice, some weren't."

Warren wrote this down and looked back up at him, pushed some hair behind her ear.

"Have you been in many?"

"Yeah, this is my tenth or eleventh."

"Tenth or eleventh?"

"I'm not exactly sure... I was in a boys' home for a little while. It's not technically a foster placement, but it also sort of counts."

Dr. Warren nodded and Alexander shrugged slightly awkwardly.

"Do you think this one is more permanent than the others?"

Alex had been thinking about this almost constantly for the past three days. Now that everything that had happened had sort of settled in, he wasn't sure whether the Washingtons would want to have him stay any longer. There was a chance he'd be moved on, he thought.

"It's indefinite. It always is."

Warren frowned and twisted the cap of her pen absently.

"Has there not been a foster parent you've wanted to stay with?"

"Yeah, there was Katherine. Six months, would have been permanent but she got sick."

Warren nodded sympathetically, it wasn't exactly as though she understood. She probably didn't, but she at least wasn't pretending she could.

"I'm sorry that happened. What was she like?"

"Nice, clever. I liked being there, I was happy."

She wrote this down, jiggling her foot in no discernible pattern.

"And after Katherine?"

Alex's heart skipped a beat and inside him, his stomach felt like it was floating. The Elliots, they had come after Katherine. The one placement he'd have traded for Pace or Johnson in a heartbeat.

"The Elliots."

She leant backwards in her chair marginally, balancing on the back two legs, a thoughtful expression coloured her features.

"What were they like?"

Nausea twisted inside him. Like something, a disease, was growing and spreading in him, like it was taking over everything else he was. He tried not to think about it, he didn't want to think about—

 _Streetlight shining through a gap in the curtains, hand heavy on his thigh, prickle of goosebumps, "please, stop."_

"Fine. They were really different to me, so..."

"In what way?"

He rolled his eyes, biting down on his lip in a combination of annoyance and anxiety, the same anxiety that bubbled inside him when he thought of the Elliots.

"They were rich, white Republicans. I didn't really like them."

Warren watched him for a moment, her gaze wasn't knowing, but she at least could tell his reticence towards the subject. His lack of eagerness to discuss what might have been one of his worst foster homes. They continued that way for another fifteen minutes or so, questions, back and forth. Alexander's answers were never full sentences, nor were they particularly detailed.

He might have found it easier to talk to someone who couldn't judge or be disappointed in him, but that didn't mean he was just going to spill out his life story to this woman. Not when there was so much he could barely face himself, let alone articulate to another person.

She left with promises to return, some other day that week. Alexander was left alone then, with his thoughts. He thought he liked Warren, in a sort of grudgingly respectful manner. How much he thought he'd ever be able to tell her, though, he wasn't sure. It wouldn't ever be very much, that he was sure of. Some things he'd much rather forget than dredging them all back up again.

* * *

Alex sat up a little straighter when the door opened about an hour later, expecting for a moment to see Marian or some other nurse in the doorway. It wasn't either, however. It was John.

Something warm bloomed inside his stomach, heating him up from the inside. The same kind of warmth unlikely sunlight gave to your face on a cold day.

"Hey."

John grinned, closed the door behind him and watched Alex here he sat on his bed. He wore a large sweater, some comfortable looking jeans and a pair of Adidas sneakers. As usual, freckles scattered the skin of his face. Less prominent than they might be in the summer, but still visible from where he stood by the door. He walked over, flopped down beside him and stretched languidly, as though he owned the place. Surprisingly, this didn't bother Alexander. It was... God dammit, it was cute.

"You're in your own clothes."

John trailed his eyes up Alex, from his odd socks to his freshly washed hair, smiling.

"Nice observation, Sherlock."

John rolled his eyes, opened his mouth to retort, and Alex seized the opportunity. He leant in, twisted his body to face the teenager and pressed his lips to John's. John grinned into the kiss and reached a hand to cup Alex's face, brushing a thumb over his cheekbone. John's tongue slipped against Alex's and the latter laughed slightly, pressing his body more closely up against the taller boy's.

They were alone, they finally had only each other. No nurses, no concerned family members. Just each other.

He felt teeth sink lightly into his lower lip and his forehead bumped with John's as they both leant nearer.

"You smell nice," murmured John, between kisses.

"Courtesy of CVS brand shower gel," whispered Alex, laughing and missing John's mouth so that his kiss fell on the side of his face.

"Missed me, missed me. Now you gotta kiss me," John's voice was sly, the kind of choked a person's voice goes when they're trying to keep a straight face. His eyes were like amber again.

Alex punched John lightly on the shoulder, laughed and kissed him one last time, softly, before resting his head against his chest and closing his eyes.

"You came alone, then?"

John nodded and twirled a strand of Alex's hair between his fingers, smiling.

"Herc had a family thing. Maybe Hugh was going back to college? Can't remember."

"Laf talk to Eliza?"

John shrugged, shifting his position so he was leant against the wall, not so uncomfortable with Alex resting on him.

"Not sure. Probably. He told you about all that then?"

Alex nodded into John's sweater. It smelt a little like Hercules, his own people smell John had probably picked up while living at his place, but mostly just like John. The deodorant he wore, the shampoo he used, the strong, chemical smell of oil paint solvent.

"You gonna see Eliza then?"

"Yeah, I guess she can know. What do you think?"

John hummed in agreement and tapped his foot against the floor to a song he'd had stuck in his head all day.

"I think... Well, Eliza's one of the best people you'll ever meet. You've got nothing to worry about, not with her."

Alex smiled, let his leg cross over John's.

"I know. I just... I would have liked to know her a bit better. Still..."

John kissed the top of his head gently and Alex laughed, feeling John's hand reach up to stroke him there.

"I'm not a cat, John."

"Tell that to Laf."

Alex stopped mid-grin, his eyebrows creased and he tilted his head in confusion, looking up at John.

"Huh?"

John frowned, played with some of Alex's hair, watching the strands turn caramel in the sunlight.

"The cat, you know, Lex. Wait, you know about the cat, right?"

Alex lifted his head off of the other boy's head to watch John more easily.

"No..."

John shrugged and leant back against the wall, playing with the end of his sweater. Light spots danced across the wall as light bounced off the face of his wristwatch.

"They started feeding this stray cat, thought they'd name it. They chose Alex, shortened it to Lex."

Alex's eyes widened and he sat up a little straighter, a little incredulous. A cat? A feral cat? Named for him?

"Why? Wha— A cat?"

John laughed and shrugged, the reflection off his watch danced a little with his movement on the far wall.

"I don't know, it's a cute cat. Dark brown, small."

Alex sat back against the wall, thinking. Mr. Elliot sprung to mind, unwelcome, uninvited. There was a little phrase he used to throw around.

"Foster father of mine used to say something about cats, about me. 'Can't teach an alley cat to be a pedigree.'"

John frowned, twisted to face Alex more fully.

"That's horrible."

Alex shrugged, indifferent. He watched as the light from John's watch bounced of the glass in the door and hit the side of his face, silver.

"Well, I don't like it much either, but it's sort of true. In regards to me at least. Once a foster kid, always a foster kid. You know?"

John raised an eyebrow, "I mean... I... I'd say there's more to you than just 'foster kid'."

"Yeah, there is, but not to him."

"What foster home was he?"

Alex held his breath for a moment, trying to mask his discomfort with a pensive sort of expression.

"Uh, like the seventh."

John nodded and kicked off his shoes so he could sit properly on Alex's bed.

"Make yourself at home, why don't you," Alex was glad for the change of subject, scooted across the bed, closer to John, their shoulders touching.

"Not hard with you."

It sort of just came out, John hadn't really thought too hard about what he'd been about to say. He didn't normally with Alex, he normally just said whatever came into his mind. Didn't have to keep up any facade, not like he did with his dad, or everyone else excepting Lafayette and Hercules.

He realised what he'd said, looked at his hands in his lap and let out a small breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding.

Then, he felt lips on his cheek and the light brush of eyelashes against his own.

"It isn't for me either."


	36. The Elliots

**Hey, sorry for the delay, I've been writing this for the past few weeks, it's another prequel. I hope you enjoy it!**

 **Trigger warnings: Sexual abuse/ assault, grooming, abuse, self-harm, victim blaming, self-hatred.**

It's quieter in this neighbourhood than what he's used to. There's no blaring of car horns or revving of motorbikes, no yelling from apartment windows and little bodegas in rapid, angry Spanish or music playing from speakers on street corners.

Instead, the occasional car rolls by. Tall, well kept looking apartments line the streets, set much further back from the road than the ones back in Harlem. He can't help but feel intimidated at the wealth around here, looking down at his own appearance. Beat up Adidas sneakers, at least third hand by now, clothes that scream charity shop.

The car parks in a small bay, right next to a tall, expensive looking apartment building. Alex wonders how much the rent might be, probably well into the three thousands. He doesn't even want to think about the figures of buying a place here. The architecture is, what Alex thinks, mock baroque style. The building can't be that old though, it looks new. With its shiny windows and gates, pillars and ledges showing no sign of wear. It reminds him of photos of London, those town houses around the Mayfair area, old fashioned yet ridiculously wealthy.

His social worker, a tall man with a name Alex always used to struggle to pronounce, Knox, nods at him to get out of the car. He complies quickly, pulling his duffel bag with him, straightening up and brushing down his jacket. There's not much point in this, he hears Mr. Knox let out a sigh. He can't make his tattered old puffa look any less beat up than it is.

The walk up to the front door of the building feels about five times longer than it probably actually takes. His social worker looks at a slip of paper and then buzzes at number three on the intercom. The door is opened by... Alex would think it was someone who lived in the complex, but she's dressed in what looks like a uniform of some sort. It takes him a second to realise that someone's been employed to answer calls and let people in.

This is just another thing to add to the growing pile of insecurities and doubts on his shoulders. He doesn't belong in a place like this.

"We're looking for a Mr. and Mrs. Elliot?"

They're brought to another door, within the main entrance way of the apartment building. Alex tries hard not to let his awe show on his face, because, in truth, he's never been in a place like this. Everything about the building, the design, the decorations, the colour, they all feel sleek and expensive. He knows many people would disagree, but he thinks he prefers the scruffy comfort of Katherine's apartment or the cool, tiled home he grew up in. Full of wind chimes and reed blinds to keep out mosquitoes and afternoon heat.

His social worker knocks thrice on the door and taps his foot as they wait. He's not an unkind man, he's just willfully ignorant. He's started to give up on finding a permanent home for Alex.

The door opens and Alexander instinctively takes a step back at the movement. A man stands in the doorway, he's tall — maybe even as tall as his social worker — and probably in his late thirties or early forties. He's white, with light brown hair, dark eyebrows and prominent cheekbones. He's got the look of someone who was called good looking when they were younger, but now probably gets 'dignified' or 'charismatic' instead.

He's not heavy set, which Alex supposes is a good thing. He's always been hurt the worst by people with so much strength they don't realise how hard their punches land on a small body. Though he's not exactly slim either and Alex knows by now that adults don't need to be strong to hurt foster kids. The Harveys and Mrs. Newson ring true to that.

"Ah! Good evening, you're Alexander, I assume?"

He nods, tries to smile and hoists his bag a little higher up on his shoulder.

"Why don't you come in?"

If he had been impressed with the lobby outside, he's surprised he remains standing when he walks into the hallway of the apartment. It's spacious, airy —much bigger than most _houses_ he stayed in— and decorated with an assortment of art, vases and accessories; everything seems to be made of marble or porcelain. It's tasteful, like you'd flip open a home decor magazine to see a photo of this place.

A large, gilded framed mirror hangs above a small table in the entrance way. In it, he catches sight of his face. His mouth is slightly open in shock, he shuts it quickly. Katherine used to joke that he'd catch flies.

He follows Mr. Elliot through a door to their right and into the sitting room. A woman sits on the sofa near a window, her legs crossed and her hands folded neatly in her lap. She looks to be around the same age as her husband, but her face has more lines. Especially around her eyes and forehead. Stress or grief lines, Alexander thinks. Her hair is pulled half back with a tortoiseshell clip and she's dressed like someone who's lived with money for so long, they've forgotten they have it.

She smiles as they come in, her eyes flicking up and down Alex's appearance in the now familiar way new foster parents always do when they first meet. He wonders if she's the type to judge or pity his shabby appearance. He doesn't much like either, but the latter is preferable.

"Well, it's time for introductions I suppose," his accent isn't from the city. It's not as rounded, sounds like it's from upstate, maybe Albany. Educated and intellectual too. "My name is Mr. Elliot, this is my wife. You can call us by those names. Do you prefer Alexander or Alex?"

He clears his throat, tucks his hand in his pockets and shrugs, looking at the floor. When he speaks, it's with a conscious effort to downplay his accent.

"I don't mind."

They're invited to sit down and Alex's thoughts stray as his social worker and the Elliots converse. He thinks of Katherine. Of two days ago, when she'd collapsed, started coughing blood. It had been pneumonia. Dangerous for someone of her age, she's been deemed at least temporarily unfit to care for him He's been moved on now, away from perhaps the only home he's been truly happy in. He's hoping he'll return soon, that once she's better he can live with her again.

"Alexander?"

He starts, looks up from his hands to see the eyes of the three adults all trained on him. Someone must have asked him a question.

"You'd be in what grade now? Seventh? Eighth?"

He wonders why Mr. Elliot didn't just ask his social worker this, he knows.

 _Because he's trying to make conversation, get you to actually say something for once, idiot._

A rather sarcastic voice in his brain supplies this and looks up, trying to make eye contact with Mr. Elliot and appear a little more polite than he's come across thus far.

"The eighth grade. I'm fourteen."

Mr. Elliot smiles and Alexander fiddles with the string on his hoodie. He's tired, it's late. This placement was rushed, due to the circumstances of him leaving his last home. Normally, he'd arrive at a new home at a reasonable time, but they had to put him somewhere before nightfall. He couldn't sleep in Katherine's empty apartment with some bored social service worker looking after him another night.

The three adults speak for another ten or fifteen minutes about his previous placements, his situation and the standard, esoteric foster care jargon. He's finding it difficult to stay awake, he hasn't slept well since what happened with Katherine and he finds his eyelids drooping slightly as he sits on the sofa.

"It's late, I think some of us are getting a little tired. Maybe we should consider wrapping this up?"

Alex's eyes had just slid shut, despite his logic's protestations. He hates this state of half-sleep; when you're desperately trying to stay awake but your body is dragging your eyes shut, screaming at you to rest. You drift off, and then, suddenly, snap back into consciousness, only to begin the whole process again.

He sits up a little straighter, blushing and pushing some stray strands from out of his face. Mr. Elliot smiles at him indulgently but his social worker's look is warning, telling him to behave.

His hair, which last year he kept intending to get cut, has grown out past his chin now. At this point, he's content to just tie it up. He doesn't like the idea of someone cutting it, he doesn't think he'd let anyone near his neck with scissors or a razor.

His social worker stands up, brushes himself off of imaginary lint and smiles. Alex stands too, picking up his duffel bag from where he's laid it carefully by his feet. Mr. Knox doesn't hug him before he leaves, he's not that sort of social worker. He nods, smiles and shakes hands with Mr. and Mrs. Elliot before climbing back into his car and driving away into the night.

He turns to his new foster parents shyly, now that he has no one here to speak for him, he's even more nervous about how he comes across to these people.

"Well, Alex, we're very happy to have you staying here," Mr. Elliot smiles. Alex tries a smile in return. He opens his mouth to respond, almost replies with 'ditto', but stops himself. These people won't appreciate his short, snappy teenage slang.

"Thanks for having me."

Mr. Elliot smiles and his wife gives a small nod, her mouth still set in a tight line. Alexander gets the impression her husband wants him here more than she does.

"Did you have dinner? Do you want something to eat?"

He shrugs and then remembers people don't appreciate indecisiveness, so he shakes his head.

"I'm alright... I'm not too hungry."

Mr. Elliot smiles and turns to his wife, putting a gentle hand on her arm.

"Shall I show Alex his room?"

She nods, tight-lipped and gives him a small smile, "sleep well, Alexander."

Then, she retreats back into the sitting room they'd just come from.

Mr. Elliot grins at him and leads him upstairs, past expensive vases on little tables and framed, Victorian-looking watercolour paintings.

"So, you're social worker tells me you're from the British Virgin Isles?"

Alex nods. Generally, when he meets new people, this is the usual conversation starter. He supposes Americans find the idea of the Caribbean so exotic and alluring, to him it's just home.

"Yeah, I came here a couple of years ago."

Mr. Elliot hums in interest as they walk through a small little hallway, as elaborately decorated as the one downstairs,

"I'm guessing, from your accent, that you grew up speaking Spanish?"

Alex shrugs. People assume a lot of things, he gets Caribbean, Mexican, Cuban, French, Spanish, once even Haitian. It's normally only fellow Puerto Ricans or Caribbean people that guess right. It's always difficult to explain that he was born in Nevis, to Puerto Rican parents, speaking Spanish, French and English.

"Yeah. I was raised speaking a few languages, I guess Spanish is one of my first. It's complicated."

Mr. Elliot smiles, nods and pushes open a door at the end of the corridor. To his room. _His_ room.

It's larger than any he's ever had and definitely, well, not nicer per se, but it's like everything else in the house; expensively furnished, everything seems new, clean and perfect. There's a bed, tucked neatly into the corner by a large window, a desk, a wardrobe and a dresser. On said dresser, he sees deodorant, shampoo, soap and shaving things. Alex doesn't shave, but he supposes the Elliots didn't know what kind of teenager they were getting. He appreciates the thought.

"The bathroom's just down the hall, next to mine and my wife's bedroom. Our son, he's a junior at Cornell but he stays weekends occasionally, he sleeps across the hall. You probably won't see him very often."

Alex nods and places his bag at the foot of his bed, feeling very small in this wealthy, upper-class home. He feels out of place in _whole foods stores_ , here, he might as well be a penguin in the Sahara.

"Thanks... Thanks for letting me stay."

Mr. Elliot smiles and looks Alexander up and down a few times, bites his lip.

"You wouldn't have any aversion to some new clothes, Alex? We could go tomorrow or the next day?"

He squirms, embarrassed and shrugs. He could do with new clothes. He still owns some stuff he stole from his middle school on Staten Island and only about a third of his meagre wardrobe fits him properly, the other sixty percent varies from being to baggy, too small too long and too short.

"I suppose... Yeah, if you'd like."

Mr. Elliot smiles and puts a hand on his shoulder jovially, squeezing once. Alex holds his flinch back, smiles shyly and mumbles a tentative good night to the man.

"Night, Alex. See you in the morning."

* * *

He's not sure what to make of this new placement. It's definitely better than the majority of the ones he's been in. Mr. Elliot is nice, he supposes. He asks Alex about himself often, they talk together a lot about various different things. He's a clever guy, Alex talks to him often about things he's reading. Clever in an academic sense, really, maybe not so much in the way of street smarts, he's a little ivy-tower. Mrs. Elliot is quiet still, reserved. She's not unkind to him, or even uncivil, they just don't interact much.

Sometimes, though, there are little things that make him feel less welcome here, or at least smaller. They're a rich family and he comes from homes that have teetered on the poverty line, supporting themselves paycheck to paycheck. He can't help but feel out of place, and when Mr. Elliot takes him to buy some new clothes this feeling is only exemplified.

"What size would you be?"

Alex looks up from examining a pair of jeans. The price tags in this place all end in more than one zero, he's wondering if there's anything here he'd be able to wear without feeling incredibly guilty.

"I- uhh. Maybe a small? I'm not sure."

Mr. Elliot frowns, examines the labelling on a shirt and picks two sizes of the shirt up.

"Try an extra small and a small, see which one fits better."

He tries to tell Mr. Elliot that the things are too expensive, but he waves Alexander's protests away. This is really the one thing Alexander dislikes about this placement, how wealthy the family is. He gets the distinct impression that their kindness is rooted in pity, rather than decency. Maybe it's a little cynical, but he thinks they do look down on him as this poor, Hispanic, inner-city kid.

He doesn't really fit in with their way of living. On the very first morning, when he wakes up, he changes and walks out onto the landing. It's early on a Saturday morning and he doesn't expect anyone to be awake, he had wanted to get a glass of water and then fall back asleep until a more a reasonable hour.

He pads quietly downstairs and into the kitchen, freezing in terror when he sees someone who isn't Mr. or Mrs. Elliot stood by the cupboard. He stands still for a moment, she evidently hasn't noticed him as she rummages through the cupboard. He clears his throat awkwardly and she jumps, turning around to face him, hand clutched to her chest.

"My God!"

She takes a step back and runs her eyes over him for a second, her brow furrows in confusion and she seems to be trying to figure him out. She's young, maybe in her early twenties, and she looks like she could be Hispanic. She has dark, very curly hair, a small heart-shaped face and a boyish figure.

"Who are you?"

They both speak at the same time, in what Alexander realises a second later are very similar accents. She replies first, brushing her hands down on her apron.

"I work for the Elliots, I'm a cleaner."

He should probably have realised. What she was taking out of the cupboard were cleaning products and she wears an apron over a pair of black pants and a black shirt.

"I'm... I'm their foster son. I only came yesterday."

She narrows her eyes, regards him for a moment and then speaks in Spanish, startling him slightly.

"¿Hablas español? Hablo con un acento."

 _You speak Spanish? You have an accent._

He nods, briefly thrown off. The most he's spoken in Spanish recently have been a few words in the bodegas back in East Harlem, it's been a while since he's talked to somebody properly in the language.

"Si, Soy puertorriqueño. ¿Y tú?"

 _Yeah, I'm Puerto Rican. You?_

Normally if he's speaking Spanish or someone Hispanic asks him where he's from, he'll just say he's Puerto Rican. He's never even actually been, but most people don't immediately associate the island of Nevis with Spanish speakers, so it's easier to just say his heritage than explain the long, complicated story of his upbringing. Anyway, his dad, though they could never afford to vacation in Puerto Rico, made sure he learnt Spanish properly and deeply impressed on him the importance of his culture, to a point where Alex wasn't allowed to speak French to him.

They ate Puerto Rican food growing up, listened to Puerto Rican artists and had even talked about moving there when Alex was about seven or eight. That had been when his parents first started arguing, but had thought they could work things out. They'd thought going home might help, but there hadn't been enough money to make the move.

He thinks that maybe she's Dominican or Cuban, it's a reasonable guess, he knows the majority of Hispanic people in this area are from those countries. Anyway, her accent isn't Puerto Rican and he doesn't _think_ it's mainland southern American.

"Soy Dominicana pero, Señor Elliot cree que soy mexicana."

 _I'm Dominican, but Mr. Elliot thinks I'm Mexican._

Alexander winces at this. He gets it, Americans have this tendency to assume if you're Hispanic, you're Mexican. Sometimes they guess El Salvador or Cuba, but it does often feel like they're just naming countries they know people that look like him are from. _Dark hair? Dark skin? Speaks Spanish? How different can they all be?_

"Lo siento ¿Como te llamas?"

 _Sorry, What's your name?_

She sprays some cleaning product onto a rag and starts to wipe down the counters, speaking as she works. He feels a sudden urge to offer his help, he's never lived in a house that employed domestic help before. He doesn't know how people stand it, he feels so awkward.

"Danna ¿Y tú?"

 _Danna, and you?_

He opens a cupboard to get a glass but only finds plates and bowls. Danna laughs at his rather lost expression and points to the cupboard behind him. He grins and takes out a glass, filling it up with some water.

"Alejandro. ¿Qué piensas de él? Señor Elliot."

 _Alexander. What do you think of him? Mr. Elliot._

She shrugs and places a kitchen cleaner back in the cupboard, reaching now for some wood polish.

"Es bueno. Él es un Republicano rico y blanco. ¿Qué tan bueno puede ser?"

 _He's fine. He's a rich, white republican. How good can he be?_

Alexander laughs, he has to agree. He's not too sure his own opinions on Mr. Elliot yet, but he's not so sure he completely likes everything he sees. All this reminds him that to Mr. Elliot, Latin people are his cleaners, people in service jobs, not ones he bothers to actually get acquainted with. It makes him that bit more uncomfortable.

Just then, as Alexander is about to say something about the aforementioned rich, white Republicans, Mr. Elliot walks in. Speak of the devil.

"Él no entiende español, no te preocupes."

 _He doesn't understand Spanish, don't worry._

Danna says this casually, her eyes fixed on her work and her back turned as though she doesn't see the man behind her. Then, she puts down her rag, turns and smiles widely at her employer, as though she'd only just noticed him.

Alex has to hold back his laughter, stifling a rather undignified snort behind his hand and disguising the sound with a coughing fit.

"Morning, Mr. Elliot."

He smiles and walks to the cupboard, pulling out a mug and setting it underneath the coffee machine.

"I see you've met, Danna is Mexican, Alex. So you both speak Spanish, don't you?"

Alexander nods, smiling. Mr. Elliot grins back. He must think Alexander is a just a little less tired this morning. Danna shoots him an exasperated look while Mr. Elliot is working the coffee machine.

"Do you want some coffee, Alex?"

He watches the mug Mr. Elliot just brewed for himself and instantly wants some. He hasn't had a mug of coffee since the day everything happened with Katherine and now his body is humming for some, it's maybe why he was so tired last night.

His coffee consumption has steadily increased over the past year or so, ever since he started having trouble sleeping when he was thirteen, he uses this stuff as a substitute. The problem lies therein, that he doesn't give sleep the opportunity to give him energy, always assumes he'll not get any. Just drinks coffee instead. He prepares in advance, because even when he does get sleep, it's not always undisturbed.

"Yeah, thank you."

Normally, he might ask Danna if she wanted a cup. The very few times Katherine had people around, he'd make tea or coffee for them all. It just feels like the right thing to do, it's probably the Puerto Rican hospitality he grew up with. His mother would rather die than have someone in their home and not do her best to feed them and make them comfortable.

But Mr. Elliot hasn't offered any to her and it's only his very first day here, he doesn't want to overstep any bounds. He says nothing, just takes the steaming mug Mr. Elliot hands him and smiles.

* * *

On his third day with the Elliots, a Monday, Mr. Elliot wakes him up a little earlier and drives him to school. It's the same one he went to when he lived with Katherine and his previous foster families, in Manhattan. It's not very far from this new placement, so moving to a new school didn't really seem necessary.

He wears a new pair of jeans and an older jacket in better condition than the other things he owns. Mr. Elliot makes breakfast and dresses for work. Alex isn't one hundred percent sure on the specifics of what he does, but he knows it's something along the lines of strategy management. Something that makes him a lot of money, anyway.

Mr. Elliot talks as they drive. He talks a lot, Alexander notices, asks a lot of questions too. Alex tends to let the ones about his previous foster homes glance off, though he talks a bit about Katherine, but Mr. Elliot at least seems to sense that it's a sensitive topic for him. He backs off after the standard platitudes of sympathy.

Mr. Elliot is fine, Alex would even say he likes him, aside from one little thing he can't exactly shake. He can't help but feel as though he's some sort of make-a-wish kid, brought into this rich family and given nice clothes and food, because he's this inner-city orphan, pitiful enough that even rich, upper-class families would turn the spare change from their pockets for him. It makes him feel funny if he thinks too hard about it, so he tries not to.

It doesn't help matters that Mr. Elliot has started throwing around this little saying, something that may or may not be from Lady And The Tramp or The Aristocats. Alex isn't so sure, those two movies sort of blur into each other. He thinks he watched them back to back in elementary school.

It's 'You can't teach an alley cat to be a pedigree', or whatever. He likes to use it whenever Alex looks shocked at how expensive something is, or Mr. Elliot's casual mention of his many trips abroad or his frequent air miles.

It's a joke, but it just serves to remind him how little Mr. Elliot, despite his intelligence, actually understands his situation.

* * *

The school week passes in a grey-linoleum-floor-coloured blur of lessons, homework, forgettable interactions with his classmates and a fair amount of stress. He can't take his mind of Katherine, of how she's doing. Mr. Knox said he'd call if he received any news about her condition, yet so far, there's been nothing. He finds his mind straying to what he could have done differently that day. Maybe if he'd had noticed sooner that'd she'd been tired and looked ill, she might not have gotten as bad as she did. He should have seen it coming.

In English class, they have ten minutes left after they've finished all the work so they do a crossword on the whiteboard. He used to do the crossword with Katherine, it was painful. He'd just leant his head on his arms and closed his eyes.

That night, Friday, he eats dinner with Mr. and Mrs. Elliot in the kitchen. They talk about their son, Johnathan, who's coming home from Cornell the week after next for a night. He's quiet, listens rather than talks. He's still got Katherine on his mind, he can't think of much except how he could have he helped her.

He watches some TV for a little while in the living room. Mr. Elliot comes in and out, making sure he knows how to use the setup, asking him about what he's watching, if it's any good. He's a pretty nice guy, Alex has decided. He's becoming more comfortable with joking around with him.

He goes to bed at about eight forty-five, it's early yet but he doesn't see much point in staying up late. He wants to catch some sleep, because he knows if allows himself to dwell even further on thoughts of Katherine, he'll not sleep at all.

Sleep comes quick, but if he had hoped it would work to distract him from thoughts of Katherine, he'd be wrong. In fact, it only made it more real.

 _His stomach churns as he runs for the phone. Not in a metaphorical way though, he physically has to swallow down vomit as he runs through the apartment and towards Katherine's room. He almost stops in the bathroom, afraid his stomach will decide the best time to get sick is now, but he chooses to go for the phone instead. He'll have to deal with it if he throws up on the floor, he needs to call 911._

 _He dials the number with shaking fingers, sprinting back to the living room as the number rings. He stands by Katherine, who's still slumped in the armchair as the operator answers._

 _"911, what's your emergency?"_

 _He pushes some hair from his eyes and takes a deep breath, trying not to cry._

 _"My foster mom, she's unconscious."_

 _"Are you alone? Is there another adult with you?"_

 _"No, no, we're alone."_

 _He kneels beside Katherine, trying not to look up at her face, where blood leaks from between her lips. He takes her wrist, checks her pulse, it flutters quickly, too quickly for it to be normal. He knows that will be the next question._

 _"Is she breathing, is there a pulse that you can find?"_

 _He nods, draws in a deep breath and chokes back a sob._

 _"She's breathing. Her pulse is fast. Por favor, ella necesita ayuda! Ella estaba tosiendo sangre, por favor!"_

 _He holds his forehead in his hand, tries not to look down at his own shirt splattered with blood._

 _"Sir, do you need a translator?"_

 _He shakes his head wildly, that would only waste time. He can speak English, he's fine._

 _"No! No, sorry! She was coughing blood, and she's unconscious, please, we need help!"_

 _"Okay, you need to remain calm. Is her head tilted back? You need to make sure she doesn't choke if there's blood in her throat."_

 _He can feel tears pouring down his face as he repositions her head, trying to make it so that it sits straight on her shoulders, not lolling forwards or backwards too drastically._

 _"No sé qué hacer, please, no sé qué hacer! Will you send an ambulance, please, she's still unconscious."_

 _"Sir, please remain calm, we need an address to send an ambulance."_

 _He nods frantically and paces up and down the sitting room, eyes flicking back to Katherine every other second or so, just to see if she moves, coughs again. She doesn't._

 _"The address is number 103 on East 120th street._ _We're in an apartment, the eighth floor, door number twelve."_

 _"Okay, an ambulance has been dispatched, it'll be there in three minutes or so, try to remain calm while you wait, watch her for any changes in breathing or pulse."_

 _He nods, tasting tears salty in his mouth. He's praying now, words he thought he'd forgotten since his mother taught them to him when he was four. He doesn't even really know why, he doesn't believe there's anyone up there to help him, it's really just a comfort thing; praying._

 _"Padre nuestro, que estás en el cielo. Santificado sea tu nombre. Venga tu reino. Hágase tu voluntad en la tierra como en el cielo. Danos hoy nuestro pan de cada día."_

 _He's not sure if the dispatcher is still on the phone, if she is, she's not asking any questions. He hears a sound above him, stands up from where he sits on the floor. Katherine is coughing again, blood drips from his lip and onto her clean, light blue shirt._

He wakes up half out of his bed, a yell on his lips. His entire body is instantly in panic mode, he's sweating, his hair is plastered to his forehead and his heart pounds against the inside of his ribcage.

He sits there, crying and failing to catch his breath as he hears noises in the corridor outside. This is the first time he's dreamt like this in months. During the first half of his stay with Katherine, he dreamed occasionally, but she was always there next to him to help him through a panic attack.

The door to his room swings open and Mr. Elliot rushes in. He tries not to cower, knows it offends people when he's scared of them, but doesn't succeed all too well.

"Alex, are you okay? What happened?"

He wipes roughly at his eyes, takes a deep breath and shakes his head, trying to apologise.

"I'm fine, I'm... Sorry."

Mr. Elliot sits down next to him on the bed and puts one arm around his shoulder.

"Did you have a bad dream?"

He nods, wiping another tear that had slipped down the side of his nose. He's frantically trying to push himself out of the panic attack he already feels he's succumbing to.

To him, panic attacks are like exactly drowning scenes in films.

The character's fingers always scrape frantically at land, at safety, but whatever's dragging them down is too strong, they always succumb in the end. Bubbles rise from between their lips as they frantically try to breathe but can't. Fingers go limp, eyes flutter shut.

That's always exactly how he feels.

He closes his eyes and feels his body tremble as he takes sharp, quick breaths. Mr. Elliot's rubbing comfortingly at his arm and saying soothing words, but he doesn't know what they are. He's busy employing every technique he knows to try and relax, to calm down. He counts his breaths. They're fast at first but start slow to down eventually, he starts trying to fit three breaths in one count, then two, then one. Katherine taught him that.

He's shivering, though not exactly sure why. Moments ago he was boiling, his hair sticks to the back of his neck with sweat. But now, he's freezing. His arms are bare and prickle with goosebumps.

Eventually, his body seems to slacken and his shoulders droop, his head rests on Mr. Elliot's shoulder and he tries not fall asleep then and there. He's exhausted. After panic attacks, all his energy is instantly drained. He just wants to sleep, to pass out and not wake up for hours.

Mr. Elliot's still holding him tightly and Alex is too polite to say that he's okay, ask him to let him go. After an awkwardly long space of time, in which his breathing is still audible in the silence of the room, he yawns, tries to get the message across that he's really, really tired and for the most part, through his panic. Mr. Elliot seems to take the hint.

"Are you alright? Will you be able to get some sleep?"

Alex nods. Thinks, yes, he'll be able to get to sleep, it's all he's wanted to do for the past ten minutes.

"Yeah. I'm sorry, thank you."

Mr. Elliot smiles, at least Alex assumes he does. It's dark, he can't really see, but he's always smiling at Alex anyway.

Alexander lies back onto his bed and closes his eyes as Mr. Elliot leaves the room. He rolls onto his front, yawns again into his pillow and it's not long before he's fallen back into a deep, impenetrable sleep.

* * *

Mr. Elliot doesn't mention what happened the previous night until they're in the car, driving to the grocery store the next day, away from Mrs. Elliot.

"Did you sleep okay last night, after what happened?"

Alex nods and watches a cyclist pull off a particularly daring swerve to cut a line of traffic piling up behind a red light.

"Does that happen often?"

Alex shrugs, "not really. Maybe twice a month, sometimes three. I don't always yell or wake up so abruptly."

Mr. Elliot nods and they pull up outside the store. Alex gets out, pulls some shopping bags from the trunk and follows Mr. Elliot into the store.

* * *

He thinks he's settling down somewhat at the Elliots. He likes talking to Danna in the mornings, she understands when he talks about feeling out of place here, about feeling guilty they're spending money on him.

Mr. Elliot can be a little unwittingly offensive sometimes. He still seems to think Danna is Mexican and to him, at least, his 'teaching alley cats to be pedigrees' joke hasn't gotten old yet.

It's his third week there and Mr. Elliot is driving him to school, they're stuck in traffic again, as usual. Manhattan is always bad in the mornings, but today it's particularly slow. The radio's playing the traffic report, giving some bull excuse about delayed road works or something. He sighs and watches kids that all go to his school walk by. They'll probably get there before him.

"I never want to be in school, except when we're stuck in traffic, it's so weird."

Mr. Elliot laughs and pulls on the clutch, the car shifts about a metre forward.

"Don't worry," he rests his hand on Alex's knee, "the traffic will clear around sixty-fifth street soon, then we'll be able to take a shortcut down seventieth."

He doesn't move his hand, his fingers squeeze comfortingly once and he steers one-handed. Alex sits there, slightly uncomfortable, heart beating fast, watching his breath fog up the car window. It's just friendly affection, he thinks... But all the same. Well, Alex has been beaten and slapped around by enough foster parents. He's not going to complain if one is just nicer than the rest. He's probably only a bit uncomfortable because he's not used to being treated kindly.

Still, he's glad when the traffic clears and they pull up to the front gates of his school. He hops out with a small wave to Mr. Elliot before jogging quickly towards homeroom.

School that day is better. He loves his English classes, and he gets to do politics too. Both languages, French and Spanish, are compulsory, so he has to sit through lessons. But on the first day, he'd explained to his teacher in Spanish and then French, that he had grown up speaking both languages and was fluent in them already.

Now, he has a seat right at the back. The teacher gives him French and Spanish newspapers and he reads through those. Sometimes she'll give him a book.

Math has to be his very least favourite class. He works hard, so his grades are generally pretty good, but he's often lost. His brain doesn't naturally work in a very mathematical way, he prefers to write, use language and words to convey meaning. Numbers just tend to confuse him. His classmates think he's good at maths, ask him for help with their work. They don't know the only reason he understands what they're learning is because he stays up till ungodly hours reading his textbook, testing himself and practising.

To be perfectly honest, he wouldn't give a shit about science or math if all the colleges he wanted to go to required higher than 3.5 GPAs. He can't get that high a GPA if he flunks all his science and maths classes.

He walks home that day. Normally, Mr. Elliot drops him to school but doesn't pick him up. He doesn't come home from work until about half five most nights.

He goes straight to his room, says hello to Mrs. Elliot in the hallway upstairs and dumps his school bag on his chair. He has some homework to do, then he'll shower and eat dinner.

He writes a page in French about a book he'd read in class, does a math sheet and finishes plotting a graph for science. He's finished his homework now, so he showers. In this house, even the shower is fancy. He only knows how to change the temperature and pressure, everything else is lost to him. There's a towel rail that's connected to the shower so when the hot water turns on, the rail heats up.

Rich people, he'll never get used to it.

He dries off, ties up his wet hair and wraps his towel around his waist. He hasn't brought any pyjamas to change into, he left them in his bedroom.

He opens the door to the bathroom and steps out, almost walking straight into Mr Elliot in the hallway. He's obviously just come back from work. He's dressed in a crisp business suit and he's got an leather, expensive looking messenger bag slung over his shoulder.

Alex instinctively pulls his towel a little tighter around him and up higher around his waist, instantly remembering the car ride that morning.

"Hey, kiddo, how was school? You weren't late?"

He shakes his head, shifting his weight from one foot to the other awkwardly. His bedroom door is right behind Mr. Elliot's shoulder, blocked by the man's frame. He's very conscious that he's shirtless and that if he were to turn around, he has scars on his back from Mr. Johnson's belt last year that would become instantly visible.

Mr. Elliot grins and Alex steps to move past him. The man shifts aside to let him pass but as he takes a step towards the door of his bedroom, Mr. Elliot places a hand on his side, halting him.

"Oh, and Alex?

Alex flinches at the sensation of a hand on his bare skin but turns anyway, wincing at the way the hand slides against his waist as he moves. He tries to make a grimace look like a smile. He knows Mr. Elliot can probably feel the goosebumps growing on his midriff.

"Yeah?"

"Sorry, just wondered if you'd eaten yet? Shall I make something?"

Alex's chest is tight as he responds, itching to take another step away. His heart is pounding now and there's a crawling sensation across his skin, as though he's covered in thousands of tiny, scuttling bugs.

"Okay, I'll just change."

Mr. Elliot nods and then his hand is gone. He smiles and turns around, walks into his bedroom without another word.

Alexander pulls his towel tighter around himself and walks quickly back into his room. He shuts the door behind him and sucks in a deep breath.

He's overthinking this, being paranoid. He's just a touch-averse foster kid. He just isn't used to how foster parents are _supposed_ to act. Of course he'd interpret something totally normal as weird or unusual.

He pulls on some pyjama bottoms and shirt before walking downstairs, a book in hand. He sits at the kitchen table reading as Mr. Elliot cooks dinner. Occasionally the man makes conversation with him, asks about what he's reading.

He always seems surprised when Alex demonstrates proficiency in anything. He'd looked so incredulous when Alexander had mentioned that he spoke three languages that Alex had laughed and shown him.

He'd spoken a few words in Hebrew too (that was a long story involving unforgiving, Christian elementary schools and kind Jewish headmistresses) despite the fact that he didn't actually speak Hebrew, just knew some phrases from his rather _eclectic_ upbringing. (Eclectic, that's a rather useful word for him to use in the future, makes him sound as though he'd enjoyed a very cultured, well-rounded childhood, rather than the hardships of abject poverty.)

It had been funny before, Mr. Elliot's incredulity, but part of him thinks that his foster father is just surprised that this poor, disenfranchised kid could be good at anything. It doesn't exactly make him proud that he surpasses these expectations, because the man shouldn't have them in the first place.

* * *

He gets news about Katherine in his third week with the Elliots. They're eating dinner when the phone rings. Mr. Eliot stands up and walks to the sideboard in the dining room. He picks up the telephone and answers in that monotonous voice all adults take when speaking on the phone.

"David Elliot?"

He listens for a moment, his eyes flicker towards Alex and then he nods.

"Yes, yes, I'll get him now."

He covers the receiver with his hand and calls over to Alex, who's put down his fork, watching Mr. Elliot fearfully.

"Alex, it's Mr. Knox, he says he has some news about Katherine."

Alex jumps instantly to his feet and rushes for the phone, taking it almost roughly from Mr. Elliot's hand and holding it to his ear, his heart hammering.

"Mr. Knox? Is she okay? What's happened?"

"Alex, hello, I got some news this afternoon. She's doing better, she's been in hospital these last few weeks. She's due to go home in a week's time."

Alex takes a deep breath, trying to stop a wide, elated grin spreading across his face. Happiness blooms in his chest.

"So I'll be going back? When?"

Mr. Knox takes a few moments to answer, his sigh is heavy, Alex can hear it even through the phone.

"Alex, I don't think you understand. She's still very sick. She's not young, from now she'll need to live with a carer, there's no way she'll be cleared to take you back."

Alex's chest tightens and when he speaks his voice is choked. He can feel Mr. Elliot's hand heavy on his shoulder and his vision is swimming unpleasantly.

"What— What do you mean? I'm... What? I'm never going back?"

Mr. Knox sighs again, Alex can picture him now. Lined forehead resting against his hand, cheap, polyester tie loosened, top button undone.

"Alex, I'm sorry. No one knew about her condition, this couldn't have been helped."

He can feel tears in his eyes, maybe they're even rolling down his face. Mr. Eliot's arm is around his shoulder now but he ignores it, speaking ever more frantically into the phone.

"But it'd been five months, I was going to be there permanently. You said that was the plan! You _told me_ that was the plan!"

"Alex, I don't know what to tell you. I'm sorry, there's not much more I can do. I really am sorry, I—"

Alex doesn't hear the rest, he puts down the phone, his vision blurred with tears. The plan had been that he stay with Katherine permanently, until he was eighteen. It had been almost guaranteed. She had been the first placement in which he was happy, it had worked for everybody. The paperwork had practically already been drawn up.

His knuckles are white as he grips the wooden side of the table, tears falling freely down his face now. Mr. Eliot pulls him into a tight hug and he momentarily forgets about the vague misgiving he'd had previously about the man; it feels good to be held. He's crying into the man's chest and his shoulders tremble unwarranted.

He doesn't want to sit back down at the table, he knows he won't be able to eat like this. He feels Mr. Elliot start to walk in the direction of the stairs, he follows, trying to control the volume of his sobs, feeling bad that he's getting tears on the man's clothes.

Mrs. Elliot is still seated at the table, she's set her glass of water down, hands folded neatly over the napkin on her lap. She watches them as they leave, lines across her forehead drawn into further prominence by the pensive, narrow-eyed expression she wears, suspicion, knowing almost. She doesn't continue eating, merely begins to tidy away the food she knows will be left uneaten. Alex, of course, sees none of this.

Mr. Elliot brings him out into the hallway, one hand around his shoulders, supporting him as they walk. He opens the door to Alexander's room and the teenager sits down on his bed, buries his face in shaking hands.

Mr. Elliot holds him as he calms down, he wipes the tears from under his eyes with his shirtsleeve and slows his ragged breathing.

"Were you very close?"

Mr. Elliot's stroking his lower back in large circles, like he'd done to his arm the night Alex had dreamt.

"Yeah."

It's already dark outside. Alex wonders if he could get away with going to sleep now. He doesn't have school in the morning, he's got no homework to do, save the crossword in a French newspaper, Le Monde, that his teacher asked him to complete.

The crossword. This sends him into another bout of sobbing as he remembers doing the crossword with Katherine every morning. He remembers how, on the day she'd fallen ill, she hadn't filled in the whole thing. He'd thought it had been worrying, but hadn't said anything.

Mr. Elliot holds him, gently strokes his hair as he cries, one arm wrapped around his middle. He doesn't know how long it takes for him to regain his composure, just that eventually he's all cried out. Exhausted, totally drained.

"Do you want to get some sleep, Alex?"

He nods sleepily, his eyes flutter shut as Mr. Elliot dislodges his arm from around his waist and guides him to lie back on his bed. Alex mutters a miserable, sleepy goodnight and the man smiles. He turns off the light and before his footsteps even reach the end of the hallway outside, Alex is asleep.

* * *

That weekend passes without incident. Alex still feels a little embarrassed at losing his composure right in front of Mr. Elliot, even crying into his shoulder, but the man doesn't bring it up, so neither does he.

Mr. Elliot drives him around to the library for a school project on Sunday. The traffic isn't as bad as it had been a week or so prior, but the drive still takes around twenty minutes. Mr. Elliot's hand finds it's way back to rest just above his knee. Alex thinks it must be a habitual thing, he probably doesn't even realise he's doing it.

He researches for a few hours or so in the library before Mr. Elliot picks him up. Alex had insisted he didn't need to, but he'd said that it was raining, a long walk for someone on their own and that it was getting dark anyway.

As they wait in a long tail of traffic, Alex shakes his hair out from its ponytail and then reties it, a little higher, into a small knot.

"It's getting too long..." He murmurs, trying to fit the hair band a third time around the knot. His hair is pretty thick, but he manages it with some force.

"For what it's worth, I like it where it's at."

If he were talking to anyone else, a classmate maybe, he might shoot back a snarky, 'well thank God it's my hair and not yours then,' but he doesn't. He shrugs, suddenly content to let the subject drop.

* * *

He sees Danna the next morning, talks to her over a mug of coffee. This time, now that Mr. Elliot's not there, he offers her one. She gladly accepts.

"¿Aún vas a la escuela?"

 _Are you still at school?_

Danna only looks to be in her early twenties, Alex wonders if she goes to university. She nods and wipes down the breakfast table, pushing a curl behind her ear.

"Sí, estoy en tercer año en la universidad Hunter."

 _Yeah, I'm a junior at Hunter._

He whistles in admiration. Hunter's a public college, but a good one. She must have done really well in high school or come from a rich family. Somehow he doubts that latter option, she is working a service job for a wealthy family in the Upper East Side. Who would do that if they already had the money to support themselves?

"Guay. ¿Qué estás estudiando?"

 _Cool, what do you study?_

She pauses to take a sip of coffee, smiling at him over the rim of her mug.

"La literetura Español y Ingles."

 _English and Spanish literature._

He hums in interest, part of him though, feels a little sick. Someone smart enough to get into such good college shouldn't be cleaning the kitchen of a rich family just to avoid drowning in student loans or rent.

He wonders if, in four years time, he'll be the one wiping down tables or taking orders at McDonald's to afford university. He wonders if he'll have to put up with ignorant employers just to keep a job that gets him a decent paycheck. He thinks the likelihood of this happening is pretty high. Foster care doesn't exactly help you save for college.

* * *

His next week passes slowly. He dreams again, about three weeks after the first one he had here. It's not about Katherine this time, it's about his first ever home in America. Mrs. Newson's one. He dreams about how she'd punished him for all the times he'd woken up the house after a nightmare.

He sees her hand fly at his face, feels cold concrete against his knee and hears the slam of the back door. He swears he can feel the sensation of rust gathering under his fingernails as he scrapes at the lock, the smack of glass against his hand as he pounds on the window, yelling to be let back in.

When he wakes up, Mr. Elliot is already by the side of his bed. He must have been yelling before he awoke, probably asking to be let in, apologising in his sleep. He sits down on the side of his bed and holds Alex while he tries to calm his breathing. This time, though, his hand is a little lower down Alex's back and his arm little tighter around his waist.

Alex doesn't really notice any of this, too involved with the effort to control his breathing and still his trembling. He does notice, however, when Mr. Elliot's hand conveniently moves to rest against a section of his skin where his pyjama shirt's ridden up. His thumb rubs small circles into his skin, which might have felt comforting on his clothed arm, maybe not so much his bare waist.

He's still panicking, breathing heavily and squeezing the sheets of his bed between tight fists. He doesn't have the coordination to try and get Mr. Eliot to stop and work himself through this at the same time.

After a time, he's calm enough to release the bed sheets from his tight hold. He yawns, tries to get across the message that he's tired and would rather be left alone to sleep, but Mr. Elliot doesn't seem to take the hint like he did last time. He holds Alexander tightly for a while longer, his hand still rubbing circles onto his skin. It had been comforting before, when it was against his arm and while he was panicking, but now it just makes Alex shiver.

Eventually, after a third yawn, Mr. Elliot gives his middle one last squeeze and stands up. Alexander shuffles back quickly and pulls his bed covers tight around him, the panic in his chest spiking dramatically now, again, due to what had just occurred.

"Goodnight, Alex."

Alex assumes he smiling, he perpetually is. He forces a deep breath out. He's being stupid. This man woke up at an ungodly hour just to comfort him after a nightmare, he's a good man. Alex is being paranoid.

"Night, thanks, Mr. Elliot."

The man leaves the room and Alex snuggles down into his bed, pulling his shirt down far past his waist and wrapping his arms around himself protectively. The heating's turned on and his blankets are thick, but somehow, he can't seem to get warm again.

* * *

Mr. Elliot still gives him lifts to school every morning now, citing the bout of showers and rainy weather they're receiving. Yet despite the warmth of Mr. Elliot's car and the extra minutes he gets in bed, he always feels guilty accepting lifts, especially since his school is a little out of the way of Mr. Elliot's work.

The traffic is often heavy around Manhattan but Mr. Elliot never seems to mind terribly. He's an ardent conversationalist, always tries to get Alex to talk about himself more, and when that fails, makes conversation about anything he can.

One morning when the traffic is particularly heavy, Mr. Elliot brings up a subject they've, much to Alex's relief, avoided thus far. Politics.

The crux of the matter is that Mr. Elliot is a card-carrying Republican, he's actually spoken at conventions and contributed to this Republican news site, _The Drudge Report_.

And Alex, well, Alex would rather gouge his own eyes out than support the Republican party. Mr. Elliot raising this probably has something to do with the debate that came on the previous evening on CNN. It had been about taxes, whether taxes for America's richest should be raised to fund health care and public service.

Mr. Elliot had shaken his head and muttered something about lazy liberals before changing the channel.

"So, Alex, do you have an opinion on politics?"

Alex starts. He's been watching someone hand out leaflets on the street corner and trying to ignore the now almost familiar weight of Mr. Elliot's hand on his lower thigh.

"Well..."

If he were to express his true opinion on politics, specifically the debate last night (that America's white, upper-class have been robbing the poor working class for years and not paying enough back to the government) he feels it will most likely get him kicked out of the car and told to walk.

"I don't know. I like Obama..."

Mr. Elliot shrugs and they break through the lights at last.

"Well, I suppose that's your opinion. Maybe when you're a bit older you'll see why I don't like him."

Alex withholds a heavy sigh. If Mr. Elliot hadn't wanted to hear something against his own opinions, he shouldn't have asked. And if he hadn't thought Alex was old enough to have opinions of his own, he should have turned the conversation to something else.

"But hey," his hand squeezes a little on Alex's leg, "think whatever you want. This is America."

Alex tries a smile, Mr. Elliot's hand inches a little higher and he urges to traffic light to change.

 _Come on. Come on. Come on. Come on. Come on._

Thankfully, nothing changes in the five minutes remaining of the drive, and though Mr. Elliot's hand stays were it is, it doesn't move any further up his leg.

When they pull up in front of the school, Alex opens the door before the car's even fully rolled to a stop.

"Someone's eager for school," Mr. Elliot laughs, shifting the clutch.

"Yeah," Alex fakes a laugh and pulls his bag over his shoulder, one foot on the concrete already.

"See you soon."

"Okay, thanks for the ride."

Alex sits down at his desk in homeroom and opens his book, not actually reading the words on the page, just thinking about what had just happened. He thinks he can still attribute this to friendly affection. It's probably that Mr. Elliot's just a little old-fashioned, doesn't understand how his _totally innocent_ actions might be perceived.

Alex is content to settle with this explanation, he doesn't remind himself that Mr. Elliot isn't even old, and even actually owns an iPhone. He isn't old-fashioned at all.

* * *

Alex doesn't receive any more news about Katherine, it's the start of his second month with the Elliots. He's met their son now, Johnathan. He's fine. A lot like his father, but that comes as no surprise.

He seems surprised to see that Alex is Latin and has only been here for a year and a half, yet speaks English so well. It's not like Alexander has been speaking English daily since he was born or anything.

Johnathan is the type that ties his sweaters over his shoulders and wears chinos and Tommy Hilfiger jumpers as casual clothing. Alex doesn't really have anything against people who dress in certain brands, but it does make him a little more self-conscious of his own appearance. He's probably a walking stereotype of a foster kid. By looks, anyway. Skinny, long hair, beaten up shoes. He should really have been on _Park Avenue_.

Johnathan never stays long. He drops by sometimes to say hello, occasionally stay for dinner. He doesn't talk to Alex much, except the standard, expected pleasantries. A hello, a 'how are you?'. If he's lucky, Johnathan might try to talk to him about a video game or app or something. Probably because he's the only young person in the house. This stopped pretty quickly though, after he learnt Alex didn't use the internet for anything outside school work.

He's thinking about this as he eats dinner in the kitchen with Mr. Elliot. It's a Wednesday, around six, Mr. Elliot's said he'll help him do some math homework after they eat dinner. Apparently he considered doing math at college, he got good grades in high school. Says he still remembers most of it, that he'd be happy to help.

Alex rinses his plate and puts it to dry in the rack before jogging upstairs to grab his maths book. When he comes down a minute later Mr. Elliot is just finishing rinsing off his plate. He leaves it to dry, washes his hands and walks back over to the table.

"So, what's the homework?"

Alex sets his maths book on the table and sits down, opening it to their homework.

"Some questions on formulae with negative x terms, I can't seem to wrap my head around them."

Mr. Elliot nods and pulls his chair to be next to Alex, scanning the questions quickly. He lifts his pen and underlines x where it's written in Alex's book.

"Okay, so to start, you need to make x the subject..."

Mr. Elliot starts by working through a question on his own and showing Alex how he does it as he goes along. Alex isn't as fast a learner when it comes to math as he is in other subjects, but he sets his mind to it, eventually understanding the first, easier half of the sheet and completing the questions quickly enough.

When he moves on to the second half however, things get a lot more difficult. Mr. Elliot explains as carefully and succinctly as he can, but it's still annoyingly convoluted, there are so many things he has to remember to do to the formulae. The first time he gets a question right with minimal prompting from Mr. Elliot, the man slaps him on the back and grins, one hand resting on Alex's knee beneath the table.

Alex stiffens slightly but tries to ignore this, deciding that rather dwelling too much on a friendly, innocent touch he'll write the next question out into his copybook.

"Okay, so I just find the square root of both sides?"

Mr. Elliot nods and quickly works the question out himself on some spare paper, just so he knows if Alex gets the right answer. The teenager's book is now a mess of sums and working out, but he's getting it, slowly but surely. Eventually, he finishes the question and slides his book to Mr. Elliot to check.

"Yep, that's all right, well done. If this comes up in a test, you'll have it."

Alex smiles rather stiffly and feels Mr. Elliot squeeze lightly at his knee, his hand inches up a little, heavy on Alex's thigh. He holds his breath and focuses instead on the next question, a tricky looking one that spans at least two and a half inches across the workbook.

He starts working on it, his pen scribbling back and forth as he writes lines and lines of working out beneath the question, annotating the formulae and trying to find x.

Mr. Elliot's already worked the question out on his spare paper and is watching him as he bites the end of his pen, planning out his method.

He gets an answer eventually, after maybe five minutes of trying, but he isn't so sure it's correct. Sure enough, when he slides Mr. Elliot his book across the table, the man shakes his head, looking from his own working out to Alex's.

"Check this bit," he taps his pen on the third line of Alex's working out and his hand slides even further up Alex's leg. Now, it's far too high for Alex to even try to ignore, he can't pretend he isn't bothered.

"Okay, give me a sec, I just want some water."

Alex stands abruptly, backing quickly away from the table and towards the cupboard. He pulls out a glass with shaking hands and fills it up slowly with water, trying to buy himself more time until he has to sit back down. His heart hammers in his chest.

He drinks the water slowly and leans against the wall of the kitchen, making conversation with Mr. Elliot to delay returning to the math work.

"So how come you didn't do math at college?"

Mr. Elliot shrugs and puts down his pen, turning in his chair to face Alex and smiling.

"I'd planned to do strategy management and thought business fit better with that. So I took those."

Alex nods and sips at his water, drumming his finger against the kitchen wall. He bites back the urge to ask what kind of high school senior _plans_ to do strategy management.

"Come on then, these questions won't do themselves."

Alex finishes his water and walks reluctantly back to the table, sitting down with his lower half-twisted to face away from Mr. Elliot, instead turned towards the cupboards. If Mr. Elliot were to put his hand on his knee now, it would be a considerable stretch.

He doesn't. Alex finishes the last five questions in about fifteen minutes and packs up his stuff quickly, eager to go up to his room.

"Thanks for the help, I'll understand the class much better now."

Mr. Elliot smiles and takes a sip from the mug of tea he'd made before they'd started.

"Anytime, I'm happy to help, with math at least."

Alex smiles and nods, taking his books and pencil case into his arms and backing towards the door. He turns around and quickly jogs back up the stairs, one hand clenching so tight that his nails dig hard into his skin.

He shuts himself in his room, doesn't come out at all that night except to brush his teeth and wash up in the bathroom before bed.

Even then, Mr. Elliot walks in as he's washing his face and puts a hand on his shoulder, fingers just slightly touching the bare skin of his collarbone. He reaches up into the cabinet above his head and takes down some mouthwash, pouring some out into the lid.

"Night, Alex. See you in the morning."

"Night."

He manages to half convince himself that all this is all friendly, even paternal affection and that he's reading too far into things, being overdramatic. And even when he can't quite convince himself of this, he comes to the rather fatalistic conclusion that at least this is better than being beaten daily or starved, and that he can put up with the occasional weird touch or look if it means living in a home that feeds him, treats him well and doesn't hit him.

Even so, he doesn't get much sleep that night.

* * *

Alex has his first non-dream related panic attack for a few months just days later, at school. He comes out of the showers after gym class to find that someone in his class thought it would be a good idea to steal his shirt and shoes from where they were on the bench outside the showers.

He hates Gym class anyway, because it's tough changing in front of the other boys and not showing the scars he's got on his back from living with Mr. Johnson. There aren't many, maybe four long stripes of raised, white flesh stretching from between his shoulder blades to the small of his back.

Right now though, he has two choices. He can wait in the shower cubicle until everyone else leaves, hopes whoever took his clothes has left them somewhere in the changing room outside and be late to class. Or he can walk into the changing room now and try to find his shirt, put it on before anyone sees anything.

He decides on the latter, he doesn't want to be late to politics class next period. He pulls on his socks and jeans, wraps his towel around his shoulders to cover the scars and walks out into the changing room.

He hates the changing rooms in this school. They're small, so small that his large class of thirty-five are always cramped in together, vying for time in the showers and space on the benches. Deodorant fumes hang in the air, making him cough and boys tend to save their grossest talk for now, when the girls in their year aren't around.

He yells over the din of the changing room. The sound of boy's laughter, the hiss of lynx, god how he hates that smell.

"Hey! Whoever took my fucking clothes, give them back."

The boys fall silent and Alex throws his hands in the air, irritated.

"Seriously? Come on, just give them."

He hears laughter in the corner of the room and cranes his neck to look over the shoulders of the taller boys in front of him. It's Miles and Carlos, two annoying best friends that absolutely no one likes, himself in particular. Of freaking course.

"What the hell, Miles? Give them back!"

He walks over to where they're still laughing and hold out his hand. Behind Carlos, he can see his shoes and shirt on the bench.

"You're not funny, you know that right?"

Miles shoots Carlos an idiotic grin and throws Alex's shirt at him, kicking his shoes over too.

"Take 'em back, look like they cost like five bucks anyway."

Alex flips Miles off and turns around, clutching his things to his chest. Before he even has time to react however, Carlos has whipped the side of his shoulder with his towel, probably half jokingly, half maliciously. Unfortunately for Alex however, the towel he'd draped precariously around his shoulders to cover up his scars slips and falls to the floor, leaving his bare back completely exposed.

"Woah, the hell are those?"

Carlos' voice is loud, carries throughout the changing room, everyone looks over, interested. Alex frantically scrambles to pull on his shirt, but Miles catches his arm, staring at his back in morbid fascination.

"Damn, how the hell'd that happen?"

The whole left half of the changing room are turning their heads to stare at Alex's completely exposed scars now, falling quiet. One boy, Malik, who Alex likes better than most of the kids in his class, has his face set in horror, dark eyebrows drawn together in a frown.

"Alex, how'd you get those?"

He looks numbly from one face to the other, slowly all the talk in the changing room is dying down and everyone's turning to watch him.

He finally manages to speak and snatches his arm back from Miles' hold.

"Back the fuck off."

He pulls his shirt roughly on, grabs his school bag and sprints from the changing room, ignoring the muttering he can hear behind him, the eyes that follow him intently as he stumbles out the door.

He sprints off down the corridor and slides down the wall in a secluded hallway, burying his face in his hands and feeling his chest tighten, the first major warning sign of an impending panic attack.

He knows the bell will go any minute and classes will probably come out of the rooms either side of him when it does, but he can't walk or do anything really when he gets like this.

He's just begun to feel his heart hammer in his chest and his breaths become sharp when he hears the door at the end of the corridor open. It's his English teacher, Mr. Cooper. He stops for a moment in the doorway, clearly taken aback, and then walks quickly over, a stack of marking clutched to his chest.

"Alexander? Are you... Are you alright?"

He says nothing, manages to give a brief shake of his head and bites down hard on his lip, feeling the skin there split a little, stinging sharply. Here comes that drowning sensation again, like he's in one of those shark films, being dragged down deep under the ocean.

His teacher takes his arm and helps him to an unsteady standing position, his expression concerned as Alexander sways slightly on his feet.

"I think you should go to the front office, uh, I'll... I'll come."

He helps Alex quickly down a thankfully empty flight of stairs and towards the office, evidently slightly uncomfortable and unsure of what's happening, but anxious to help all the same. He's a nice teacher, Alex likes him. From now on though, he's just going to think Alex is some needy, panicky freak.

The front office is empty but a sixth grader sat on the bench in the corner, clutching an ice pack to his head. He collapses down onto a sofa, draws his knees up to his chest and buries his face in them, biting down on his fist, his stomach aching with waves of nausea and anxiety.

"I- I have to get to my class, I'll talk to the nurse first."

Alex does nothing, he can't multitask in the slightest when he's like this. He hears Mr. Cooper speaking quietly with the nurse, "I think he's having a panic attack," and the harsh, scraping sound of a chair being pushed out from behind a desk.

He feels the nurse's presence in front of him but doesn't look up, pretty certain his eyes will be watering badly. She crouches down before him and puts a careful hand on his shoulder, speaking softly.

"Has this happened before? Is this the first time?"

He shakes his head and feels his tooth dig hard into the delicate bone of his knuckle. The nurse squeezes comfortingly on his shoulder and then straightens up.

"I'll call your parents, we'll have the number on the system."

Alex suddenly straightens up and shakes his head wildly, not caring that tears have stuck wetly to his eyelashes.

"No, please, he's... At... Work."

"It's school policy, anyway, it's just fifth. You won't miss much."

Alex doesn't argue, just clenches his teeth as waves of nausea and anxiety roll over him, white spots flashing and saturating his vision.

* * *

It doesn't take long for Mr. Elliot to arrives at his school after the nurse calls him. The traffic in Manhattan is at his worst at around six 'till nine in the morning and six 'till nine in the evening, so though the roads will be busy, it's probably not so congested at the moment, being only around two thirty in the afternoon.

Alex's knees are stall drawn up close to his chest when Mr. Elliot walks through the door of the office, expensive coat pulled on over a business suit. His panic attack has subsided somewhat, yet he's still shaking with pent-up adrenaline and so drained of energy, it's all he can do to look up at Mr. Elliot when he walks over.

"I didn't want them to call. I'm sorry."

Mr. Elliot shakes his head and sits down beside him on the sofa, he puts a gentle hand between his shoulder blades, rubs circles there comfortingly.

"No, it's fine. I wasn't all that busy today anyway."

Alex suspects he's lying just to placate him but isn't going to protest this, he just wants to get back to the house soon so he can sleep.

"We should get home, you look tired."

Alex nods and Mr. Elliot takes his arm, helping carefully him to stand and guiding him towards the door. Alex wants to protest, say that he's fine to get to the car himself, but he doesn't want to come across as rude, especially since he made Mr. Elliot leave work early to pick him up. If this man has some saviour complex or something, he'll play ball.

Anyway, after what feels like years of being pushed and shoved around by uncaring, irritable foster parents, it's nice to be treated gently for once, like Mr. Elliot cares whether he's okay or not.

He sits in the passenger seat and tucks his backpack between his knees, putting his gym bag in the back. He rests his head against the cool glass of the window and closes his eyes, feeling damp condensation cool his warm brow. He's so tired, he just wants to get back to the house and sleep.

Mr. Elliot sits in the drivers seat beside him and clasps his shoulder gently, turning the keys in the ignition.

"Are you alright? Ready to leave?"

"Mmmhhm."

Mr. Elliot nods and puts the car into gear, backing slowly out of the parking space they're in. As he twists round to look out the back window at the road behind him, his hand falls almost thoughtlessly, casually, on Alex's knee.

Alex is too tired, too used to this to pay much thought to it. He closes his eyes against the window and rests, feeling adrenaline and panic drain out of him to be replaced with sheer exhaustion and miserable resignation.

As they drive, Mr. Elliot hums along to the radio but doesn't talk, sensing that Alex wouldn't really be listening if he did, that he just wants some rest. His hand is warm and heavy on Alex's knee, almost grounding. Alex thinks he might be okay with it if Mr. Elliot never moved it higher than the bone of his kneecap, but he does, so it just serves to makes him uncomfortable.

Alex does his best to ignore it when Mr. Elliot's hand moves a few inches higher, it's starting to push on the bounds of what could be called platonic and innocent, Alex doesn't know what he'll do if it goes any further. It's becoming harder to convince himself that he's just being paranoid these days.

He falls asleep around sixty-fourth street while they're waiting at a traffic light. The car is warm, the glass is pleasantly cool against his forehead and the hum of the engine strangely relaxing.

He wakes up around twenty minutes later just as they're slowing down outside the apartment building. The very second he's slightly more lucid, he panics. He shouldn't have let himself fall asleep, he shouldn't have let his guard down. He's such an idiot.

Mr. Elliot's hand _has_ moved, not quite into dangerous territory yet, but certainly higher than before, higher than is normal for and adult to a fourteen-year-old. Alex doesn't _think_ anything happened while he was asleep, he would have woken up if it had, right? He feels lucky, says a silent prayer of thanks in his head to no one in particular.

He grabs his gym bag from the back seat and gets out of the car, hoisting his backpack higher around his shoulder. He yawns and stretches, clasping his hands together and raising them high above his head, wincing at the tension in his muscles and back. Mr. Elliot watches the movement and chuckles, unlocking the front door.

"You should get some sleep, I'll wake you up for dinner later."

Alex nods and steps into the house behind Mr. Elliot, heading instantly for the stairs, already pulling his coat off as he goes. He walks into his bedroom and changes quickly into some pyjamas. It's laundry day, so all he's got left to wear is this old, oversized Yankees shirt (he doesn't even follow baseball!) and some pyjama shorts he's probably has since the Johnsons.

It doesn't take long for him to sleep once he collapses into bed and pulls his blankets tight around himself. He's too tired to think about what happened at school, or the car ride, or whatever the hell's going on with Mr. Elliot. He just wants to escape from it all for a few hours. He doesn't think that's so much to ask for.

* * *

The next few days pass as days are prone to do. When he goes back into school the next day, he gets a fair few weird looks from his classmates. But Alex has grown accustomed to brushing this sort of stuff off. He's never really fit in at school, or with kids his age.

He's not trying to sound like some sort of edgy Holden Caulfeild, there's nothing wrong with fitting in, he just doesn't. He likes some boys in his class and gets on well with more than a few girls in his year too. He has friends, just no close ones, no one he'd think to call if he moved schools, no one he'd go to if he had to talk about something.

And, well, he _does_ wish he had someone to talk to right now. He has so many anxieties, intrusive thoughts and worries that he just wants to pour out to somebody, about Katherine, about school, about Mr. Elliot.

The thing is, he knows if he had a friend to confide in and he told them about Mr. Elliot, he's almost sure this imaginary confidant would tell him to get out of this house, to tell someone. But the crux of the matter is that this home is so much more bearable, better even, than the ones he's lived in before.

Who's to say whether or not his next home will be as bad as the Johnsons' or the Harveys'? Trying to get out of the Elliots' house is a gamble, because he could trade this placement in for something much worse. The foster care system is Russian roulette, you never know if you're going to fucking shoot yourself in the head or not.

So he doesn't complain. He eats the food put in front of him, relishes in the bed he sleeps in, is glad for the clothes on his back. He can put up with occasional Mr. Elliot incidents, even if they are getting more frequent. He's not letting himself get placed in another home like the Johnsons', not when he has the opportunity to a comfortable life here.

Mr. Elliot almost always has his hand on Alex's leg now, while they're driving places, underneath the table at dinner, watching TV. As long as they're alone. And it's not so much his knee anymore as his thigh.

Alexander's growing increasingly uncomfortable around Mrs. Elliot, even though he doesn't see her often. He always feels guilty, because he hasn't asked him to stop.

Logically, he knows he's justified in not asking Mr. Elliot to stop this. He doesn't know how this man would react, whether or not he's the type to hit teenagers. Alexander's been fine with a number of foster families until he asks them to stop something he doesn't like or pushed his luck for something he wants. Then, things tend to turn against his favour. He's worried Mr. Elliot will be offended if he asks him to stop and what if, even more horribly, he's misread the entire situation and Mr. Elliot's just a nice, kindly foster father trying to make him feel more comfortable here.

Anyway, it's not as though Mr. Elliot thinks he's comfortable with it all. He's let on his displeasure with the whole charade through ways other than verbal. Despite attempts to act normal when it all happens, Alex can never hold back his flinches, or the way he stiffens if Mr. Elliot touches him. It's not rocket science, to tell that he doesn't like it. Mr. Elliot knows this.

But like he said before, he's not about to play Russian roulette with his foster placements, he's not going to gamble on it.

So, he just gets on with his life here. It's not at all bad. He reads loads, learns a lot at school and has gotten a little less scrawny looking since he got here. Miles and Carlos still call him 'twig' and 'pencil wrists' but he thinks he looks a bit healthier these days.

He's been at the Elliots' for one month now and it's on a Wednesday that he gets news that makes his stomach drop.

Mrs. Elliot is going to visit her sister in Massachusetts on Friday, for a whole week. He'll be alone in the house with Mr. Elliot for the whole of that time. He's told all this at the dinner table, while Mr. and Mrs. Elliot are both there. He's sure his face probably paled noticeably and he'd choked on his water before nodding and spluttering something to Mrs. Elliot about enjoying her trip.

That night, just before he goes to bed, he walks down to the kitchen to get a mug of fruit tea or anything herbal he can find. He finds it helps him sleep. The kitchen's dimly lit and empty, sparkling clean after Danna's visit that morning. He's just placed a tea bag into his mug and is waiting for the kettle to boil when he feels a hand on the small of his back.

He probably jumps about a foot in the air, gasping in shock and twisting around to see who it is. Mr. Elliot stands there behind him, like an unwelcome apparition, a smirk pulled across his face.

"Bit jumpy."

Alex's heart rate slows slightly from its pique of adrenaline moments ago and he lets out a nervous laugh.

"You scared me."

Mr. Elliot's hand finds his hip and rests there casually as he fills a mug with some coffee granules, then, as he waits with Alex for the kettle to boil, his second free hand finds his waist.

"Any plans with friends this weekend?"

Alex, in a normal situation, might laugh. When has he ever hung out with friends?

But now, the hands on his hip and waist and the presence of a person standing so close behind him that their bodies are about an inch from touching, makes the situation that bit more serious.

"Don't think so, I was just going to get some homework done."

A contemplative hum is all he's given in response to this statement. The kettle finishes boiling with a small click and Alex grabs it quickly, just to have something to do with his hands, just to get all this over with sooner. He pours the water into his mug, hands trembling ever so slightly (he hopes Mr. Elliot doesn't notice) and stirs the drink quickly. He hisses in pain as he sloshes burning water over the side of the mug and onto his hand.

"Careful there," chuckles Mr. Elliot, his voice sounds out much closer to Alexander's ear than before. It's soft, sotto voce.

Alex nods, bites down hard on his lip and picks up the mug, turning around to face his foster father. They're far too close for comfort. Alexander steps aside slightly to walk past him and Mr. Elliot smiles.

"Night, Alex."

"Night."

Alex wants to stop, put down his mug of tea, wait for it to cool. The handle's burning his hand, it stings agonisingly as he walks quickly from the kitchen. But he won't stop, he wants to get out of that room.

He eventually reaches his room and puts down his mug, gasping in pain and shaking his hand out reflexively. The handle's left a long red line across his palm. It will fade in a few hours, but it stings like hell.

He sits down, puts his face in his hands and groans. How did he get himself into this situation?

* * *

Alex is going to stay out of the apartment as much as he can while Mrs. Elliot is away in Massachusetts. He'll revise in the library after school, he'll walk around the city during the day, say he's made plans with friends. Just keep himself away from Mr. Elliot.

This is what he does on Friday evening. He stays behind until five at the school library finishing some bio and history homework. He'd have stayed longer, but the librarian was closing up, said he had to leave.

After that, he delays going home. He browses a book shop for a while, despite not having any money and walks slowly along the streets, kicking at rocks absently and taking his sweet time. He knows Mrs. Elliot had left this morning for her sister's and as far as he knows, Johnathan's not planning any visits soon. So it will only be him and Mr. Elliot in the house this evening. Danna will be there during the mornings, but only for a few hours.

When he finally arrives at the apartment it's just about six o'clock, by the battered old watch on his wrist. He'd told Mr. Elliot he was going to stay behind after school, but he's taken three hours to get back. He's sure Mr. Elliot expected him sooner. He hopes he won't be angry.

He opens up and walks into the hall tentatively, pulling off his coat and taking his bag off.

"Alex?"

Mr. Elliot's voice calls out from the living room, not angry exactly, possibly stern. It's definitely not the jovial, friendly tone he usually takes with him

Alex walks into the living room quickly, his arms folded protectively over his chest, dark strands of hair have escaped from his bun and hang around his face. Mr. Elliot sits on the sofa, the coffee table in front of him piled with what looks like work things to Alex. A laptop, some manilla folders. A binder and a mug of coffee.

"Hey..."

Mr. Elliot pushed his glasses down his nose slightly (it's the first time Alex has seen him wearing them) and closes a binder open in front of him. His expression is slightly reprimanding, the least welcoming Alexander's ever seen it.

"It's six o'clock."

Alex rushes to apologise, terrified of what the consequence might be if Mr. Elliot doesn't feel that he's truly sorry.

"I know, I know. I'm sorry, I lost track of time and I stayed behind to revise and-"

"Alex, I'm not angry. It's alright."

Mr. Elliot cuts him off before he can go off on a tangent, holding out his hand and smiling again, back to his usual, convivial self.

"Just tell me when you plan to be home so late, okay?"

Alex nods, twisting his hands awkwardly in front of him

Just for a way to fill the silence, he looks in interest at what Mr. Elliot's doing, squinting to read the nearest sheet of paper to him on the coffee table. Mr. Elliot smiles at his curiosity and pats the space of sofa next to him assertively, a clear invitation for Alex to sit own.

Alex's curiosity suddenly diminishes at the invitation, but he's backed himself into this corner now and to refuse would look exceedingly odd.

He sits down, fiddling with a hair band as he scans the work laid out in front of him. Most kids his age would probably find strategy management extremely boring and Alex... Alex thinks a fair amount of it probably is.

As Mr. Elliot explains what he's been doing over the course of the week at work and what his job involves, his hand finds it's way to Alexander's leg. The way he does it, Alexander could almost believe it was an accident. He leans forward to grab a folder about half a metre away on the edge of the desk, in doing so, placing a hand on Alex's leg to brace himself.

Alexander wants to go up to his room, finish his book, do anything but sit here. He's considering saying something, making an excuse, when the hand travels up a little further. This solidifies his intentions.

"I have some bio work I need to get done, I wanted to have it finished before it got too late."

He stands up and Mr. Elliot tilts his head questioningly, a smile playing across his lips.

"What about all that work you did after school?"

Ale pretends to look sheepish and rubs the back of his neck in a manner that he hopes denotes embarrassment.

"Yeah, I'd planned to do the bio then but I stupidly left my book here. A bit irritating but..."

He trails off and shrugs, crossing his fingers tightly behind his back. Mr. Elliot smiles, jovial again and nods, taking a sip of his coffee. Alex grins, he hopes convincingly, at him and leaves the room with a light step, not wanting to show Mr. Elliot how rattled he is. He feels the man's eyes on him the whole way.

* * *

The rest of Friday evening passes quietly. Mr. Elliot works in the lounge until around six forty-five, tidying away his stuff when he finishes and settling down for the next hour or so, writing something for the contributions section on that right-wing news site he reads.

Alexander changes into his pyjamas at around seven and goes down to make something to eat for himself. He goes into the living room momentarily, just to ask whether Mr. Elliot wants anything or is fine to make something for himself later. The man's eyes snap up from his work and he considers for a moment, fingers pausing over his keyboard.

"It's alright, I'll have something later."

Alex doesn't want to think too hard about his state of undress at that moment (pyjama shorts and a t-shirt) or the way Mr. Elliot's eyes flick more than once down to the bare skin of his lower thighs and knees. He leaves the lounge quickly then. He's becoming more and more uncomfortable in Mr. Elliot's presence, has been for a while.

He wishes he could just eat a frozen lasagna or a pack of ramen noodles like he used to when he couldn't be bothered to cook at Katherine's. He's never eaten a frozen meal that he's loved before, but right now one would feel a bit like home. Katherine's place, warm and comfortable, crosswords, misty windows and humming radios; home.

But Mr. Elliot doesn't buy frozen food and Alex isn't about to make a full-blown meal, so he settles for a bowl of cereal and some orange juice instead. Breakfast for dinner, it's a little childish, but he doesn't really care.

He sits at the kitchen table and stirs his cereal lethargically. It's going to go soggy, which he hates, but he wants to take his time. He doesn't have anything better to be doing, doesn't think he'll be able to focus enough to read or right at the moment.

He speeds up when Mr. Elliot comes in to make his own dinner, however. Alex doesn't want to be there at the table when he sits down. He's wearing shorts and Mr. Elliot can't seem to keep his hands to himself.

Alexander goes to sleep early that night. He doesn't have anything else to do _but_ sleep and if he gets ready for bed before Mr. Elliot comes up, he can avoid another incident with the man. It's only eight thirty when he climbs into bed, but he'd gladly go to sleep much earlier, as long as it meant he could limit his interactions with his foster father.

He pretends to be asleep a few hours later when he hears the footsteps he's come to recognise as Mr. Elliot's in the hallway. His light has been turned off for hours and he's not gotten up for around that amount of time either. He hears the door of his bedroom open slightly and bites down hard on his lip, his back turned away from the noise. A few moments later, however, his door closes again and the footsteps retreat, fading slowly away down the corridor.

* * *

Saturday dawns bright, the sky is the colour of milk, thin and cold, poured out over the jagged New York skyline. It rained the night before, the sidewalks are dark with water and the trees drip like rain clouds when the wind shivers through them. Alex is still not entirely used to New York weather.

It's been over a year, but before this city, everything in his life was warm, it all carried that hot, dusty smell he can never source. Like sun heated tiles and salty sea air.

He misses his home, misses the patter of rain on corrugated iron rooves in town when they got stuck in rainstorms, the way sand used to get everywhere, coating the floor in a thin layer, sticking in his shoes and socks. He used to hate that, but now he thinks he'd give anything to feel it again.

Here, summer is dusty and dry. City smells of gasoline, nicotine and weed are often one hundred times stronger when there's no rain to wash them away. He does like New York, thinks big cities suit him, but he can't pretend he doesn't wish to feel Caribbean sea air on his face again.

He dresses early, eats breakfast before Mr. Elliot even wakes up. He's finishing when Danna comes in, tired looking with dark under eye circles and hair tied in a messy knot. She must have been studying late, or else partying. Though, he has the feeling she's more responsible than that, considering she has work today.

"¿Te acostaste tarde la pasada noche?"

 _Were you up late last night?_

She sighs and walks to the cupboard, kneeling down to take out the usual cleaning products.

"¿Dios, es tan obvio?"

 _God, is it that obvious?_

Alex winces, he probably could have employed a little more tact there. Sometimes he doesn't think enough about the words that come out of his mouth. He shakes his head and shrugs, awkwardly stirring the leftover milk of his cereal.

"No, no... Lo siento."

 _No, no... Sorry._

She smiles, reassurance that she isn't actually angry. He shoots his own smile back in return, stands up and walks towards the coffee machine. He's had a mug already but Danna looks like she could use some.

"¿Quieres café?"

 _Want some coffee?_

She nods and he pours her out a mug, handing it to her with a small smile. She accepts it gratefully and he suddenly feels a surge of anger. Not at her, of course, but at... He's not even sure himself. Mr. Elliot? The government? The public school system? He mainly just feels angry that she has to do this, work awful hours in a job that probably doesn't pay very well and do a full time college course at the same time.

He goes to the cupboard, takes out a cleaning rag and some kitchen anti-bac spray and starts to clean the table. He feels it's the least he can do. He's spilt a little bit of milk there anyway and sure, Danna's been payed to do this, but he's perfectly able to clean up after himself. Why shouldn't he at least help?

"No tienen con qué ayudarme."

 _You don't need to help me._

He shakes his head and shrugs, wiping up the few droplets of milk he spilt earlier.

"No me importa."

 _I don't mind._

She smiles tiredly and sets down her mug of coffee, picking up her cloth and starting to wipe down the kitchen counters.

Mr. Elliot comes down about a half hour later, dressed and more awake looking than Alex (or Danna) feels. He smiles at Alex as he goes to make his coffee, not seeming to care that he's blocking Danna from cleaning the sink. Alex had finished cleaning the table and gotten the large window of the back door too, but Danna had stopped him from helping any more after that.

"Morning, sleep okay?"

His question's obviously directed at Alex, even if he's facing in the opposite direction to the teenager. Alexander isn't sure if he's ever heard Mr. Elliot ask Danna how she was.

"Good, fine. You?"

He nods and drums his fingers against the counter top as his mug fills with coffee from the machine.

"Fine. You went up early, I barely had time to see you yesterday."

The second part of his sentence is spoken somewhat lower than the first, it's obviously a jibe, a statement of offence disguised under simple pleasantries. Alex shifts uncomfortably in his chair.

"Long day at school, did a lot of revision."

Mr. Elliot hums into his coffee and shrugs, pushing off the side of the kitchen counter and making to leave the room. He puts his hand briefly on Alexander's shoulder as he walks over the threshold of the kitchen and Alexander can't quite refrain from wincing at the touch. A second later, he looks up to see Danna's eyes on Mr. Elliot's retreating figure, a small frown on her face. She surveys Alex shrewdly for a moment or two before returning to her work, her dark brows creased in confusion.

Alex wonders how much she can figure out from a mere touch and flinch.

He doesn't do that much on Saturday. He goes on a walk around central park, visits a French and English bookshop on Fifth Avenue and makes his way back to the apartment for one o'clock.

He has some homework to do, not much. Just some maths sheets and a finished essay he needs to check over one last time. He lays out his stuff on the kitchen table (his desk upstairs is a mess, one he can't be bothered to clean) and starts on the maths work. He doesn't really understand it too well. He knows for a fact the topic will come up on the test, so he has to learn it, make sure he understands it well enough. That doesn't make it any easier.

If only Mr. Elliot was a normal foster parent, if only he could help him with his math without having some ulterior motive behind it. He would ask him, but he knows he can figure this out himself.

Unfortunately, ten minutes later, the choice is made for him. Mr. Elliot comes into the kitchen to get a glass of water and stops behind where Alex sits, absorbed fervently in his work. He leans over his shoulder and reads the question he's been working on for the past five minutes.

"That needs to be divided by eight, because you need to find the overall average to plot the graph."

Alex sighs. He nods and divides the number on his calculator, heart pounding furiously at the immanent presence of his foster father behind him.

"And... Well, you need to find the square _root_ of this one, rather than squaring it. I can help, if you'd like."

Alex can't think of anything he'd hate more. He'd honestly rather get every single answer on the sheet wrong.

"I couldn't take up any more of your time, honestly, I'm alright."

Mr. Elliot shakes his head dismissively and pulls out the chair beside him, he sits down and reads the question Alex is in the process of answering. Alex's chest tightens uncomfortably and he barely hears what Mr. Elliot is saying over the very loud din of his thoughts, intrusive and becoming steadily more frantic.

"Alex?"

He's snapped out of his anxious, muddled thoughts by Mr. Elliot saying his name.

"Sorry, sorry. Yeah?"

The man looks at him slightly oddly and then grins, amused.

"Penny for your thoughts, ey? I was just saying, you've plotted the first three points right, but it starts to go bit wrong here..."

Alex tries to focus on the question in front of him, but it's a task that becomes ever the more difficult when Mr. Elliot's hand rests again on his leg.

He manages to finish the question at last, but it's after much prompting and help from Mr. Elliot. The man must think him incredibly stupid, his comprehension skills have drastically decreased since the very second Mr. Elliot sat down.

Alexander starts on the next question. It's on formulae with negative x expressions, the subject Mr. Elliot helped him with about a week ago. He gets the answer without any help in about a minute, comforted in the knowledge that if the subject comes up in the test, he'll be guaranteed a few marks.

Mr. Elliot grins as he writes out the answer assuredly and elbows Alex playfully.

"Maybe I should have been a teacher, huh?"

Alex wants to comment that no one in their right mind would let Mr. Elliot teach a room full of thirty kids, but he smiles instead and shrugs, because saying something like that is what gets him hit.

"Maybe."

As he works through the questions, his foster father helping him along the way with the more difficult ones, the hand on his leg moves up a little. Alex's fingers are clutching his pen so tightly that his knuckles have turned white and his hand is cramping. Mr. Elliot pays his obvious state of discomfort no mind and continues to help him with the questions on the sheet.

Panic is properly setting in now. To the left of Alex is a wall and to the right is Mr. Elliot. If he wanted to leave he'd have to back out, and there's a fridge only about a metre behind him. He doesn't have much room at all if he needed to stand quickly.

As he works through the sheet, Mr. Elliot continues to move his hand higher until Alex is worried his grip will break the pen. He wants to say something, move away, but he's frozen. He can't even hear what his foster father's saying about the maths question, he's just staring straight down at the blank expanse of paper before him.

He writes out a sum with a shaking hand, his writing thus becoming wobbly and uneven looking. Mr. Elliot is continuing, as though nothing is happening and Alexander can feel the familiar panic-pain throbbing in his head and chest. Then, Mr. Elliot's hand moves again, higher and higher, not stopping until it's right between his legs.

Alex is frozen in terror for what feels like an eternity, but is probably only a few seconds. Then, he practically launches himself backwards, away from the table. The chair makes a horrible screeching sound against the tiled floor and when he stands up, it wobbles precariously, nearly toppling over with the violence of his movement. He's breathing heavily, the panic's seizing him in full force now and his brain is only sending his body one signal, and that's to get away from the man sat in front of him.

"I— I... I think I feel a bit sick, I... I'm going to lie down for a bit."

He doesn't wait for a response, merely sees Mr. Elliot's jaw tighten and his brow crease in anger? Annoyance? Disappointment? Alex doesn't even bother to analyse it, or take his homework with him, just hurries quickly from the room, his hands shaking violently.

He closes the door of his bedroom behind him, leans heavily against it and holds his face in his hands. Alex can't comprehend what just happened, how to deal with what just happened.

He... He wants to shower. He wants to take a long, burning hot shower with the pressure turned up so high he can't hear anything but the pounding of water on tiles. He pushes off the door, scrambles for some soap and shampoo before bolting into the bathroom. He locks the door, triple checks it's secure and gets undressed.

The shower doesn't go as hot as he'd like it to. It's probably a safety thing, but he tuns it up to the very highest anyway. Afterwards, he uses some soap to scrub himself clean, anywhere Mr. Elliot touched. By the time he's finished, he thinks he's removed at least the top three layers of his skin.

He feels sick, nauseous like he's going to throw up. He closes his eyes and tilts his head back, letting the spray wash over his face, hoping the feeling will pass.

It doesn't. It abates slightly, ebbs back a little like a retreating tide, but it doesn't go away. He still feels like he's going to heave up his insides at any given moment.

Eventually, when he realises that this feeling doesn't mean he's actually going to get sick, that it's really just anxiety and revulsion melding into one, he steps out of the shower. He almost wishes he would get sick, though. Maybe it would do something to mollify the horrible feeling in him.

He shuts himself in his room then, writes an essay about the American upper class exploiting the public for their own benefits. It's a very thinly veiled attack on Mr. Elliot that he won't ever let anyone read, it's quite bad, his mind is too clouded to string words together into coherent sentences.

It's around six o'clock when he hears Mr. Elliot's footsteps on the stairs. He feels his fists clench almost subconsciously on the sides of the book he was trying to read.

There's a knock on his door, he stiffens, weighing up his options. Mr. Elliot will come in even if he doesn't answer yet he can hardly bring himself to invite him in.

"Yeah?"

He says finally, quietly. He's half hoping Mr. Elliot won't hear him and just leave him be. But no, he _does_ hear him and he _does_ come in, standing up straight, smiling at Alex as though an hour or two ago he didn't touch... He didn't do what he did.

He holds a glass of water and a blister packet of pills in his hands.

"Hey, are you feeling alright? I brought some Tylenol if you still feel sick."

So he's playing clueless, then. Alexander doesn't know what he's supposed to do. He'd like to take that glass of water and dump it over his head, he'd like to tell Mr. Elliot to go fuck himself, but he doesn't put it past his foster father to hit him, so he shrugs and stares at his hands instead.

"I'm alright."

Mr. Elliot puts the glass and pills on his bedside table and sits down next to him on the bed, not holding him like he's done before, just sitting there. Like he's Alex's friend or something.

"Do you want dinner or have you lost your appetite?"

Alex thinks yes, yes he's lost his appetite. And more importantly, he'd rather disturb a nest of angry killer bees with a stick than sit with Mr. Elliot to eat dinner.

"I'm not all that hungry."

Mr. Elliot nods and smiles at him, clasping his shoulder in a gentle grip before standing up. Alex flinches at the movement but doesn't break eye contact with Mr. Elliot until the man turns around, walks out of his room and back downstairs.

Sleep doesn't come easily that night. He can't shake that nauseous feeling in his stomach and he has a headache, psychosomatic or not, it hurts like hell. He wants to take one of the Tylenols, but somehow feels like it would be letting Mr. Elliot win. Giving into him. So he just lies in bed, hoping that he can will himself to sleep. He's long since finished the water, hoping it would help his headache, and he's certainly not going down to get any more.

Eventually he drifts off, but it's to a sleep ambushed and warped by nightmares. Not the type that scare him awake, not so vivid or sharp, more hazy and uncomfortable. When he wakes up on Sunday he's filled with a vague sort of anxiety he can't exactly place.

He gets dressed into the largest hoodie he owns and a pair of jeans before walking downstairs. Sunday is the only day Danna doesn't work, so they're entirely alone in the house. He wants to eat before Mr. Elliot even wakes up, then he can go out for as long as possible, avoid all contact with the man. Mr. Elliot's footsteps descend down the stairs just as the kettle clicks, boiled. Alexander curses under his breath. He hasn't woken up early enough to avoid him, either that or Mr. Elliot heard him come down and got up earlier to see him.

He pours the water into his mug and tries not to react when he hears Mr. Elliot walk through he door behind him. A hand rests on his back and he feels goosebumps rise on his arms, glad he's wearing a sweater so that his foster father won't see.

"Feeling better?"

No.

"Yeah."

He doesn't want to encourage any sort of conversation with his foster father, he wants to get across with as few words as possible how little he wants to talk to him, see him, be in the same room as him.

But Mr. Elliot doesn't take away his hand, not while Alex pours his coffee, adds the milk or stirs it. He slips it lower to his waist, holding him there instead.

Alex wants to whip around, throw his coffee right in this man's face, kick him, slap him, tell him to take his fucking hands off him; but he's done that before. He's told foster parents not to hit him, not to speak to him like they do; it never gets him anywhere but on the floor with a bleeding lip.

He turns around, his coffee held tightly in one hand and his fist clenched in his hoodie pocket.

"I'm going out today."

He doesn't phrase it like a request. It isn't one.

"Okay, where? With who?"

Alex knows Mr. Elliot will have more reason not to let him go if he tells him he's going alone. He thinks on his feet, he's actually pretty good at bullshitting extemporaneously.

"Fifth Avenue. With Malik and Jesse, guys from school."

"Someone's talkative today."

Alexander shrugs and steps away from Mr. Elliot's hand, moving backwards towards the door. He's going to drink this in the sitting room, he doesn't want to sit at the table, especially not with Mr. Elliot there.

He turns on CNN and sits down on the sofa, watching two white news presenters discuss an immigration issue. Mr. Elliot comes in to sit beside him a minute later. He's like a cat following a toy. It would be funny, maybe even pathetic, if he wasn't so much taller, stronger than Alex, so unapologetic in his actions.

Alex shifts subtly away from him, taking a sip of his coffee and focusing intently on the screen.

Mr. Elliot's hand moves to his thigh and Alex bites down hard on the inside of his cheek. He shifts an inch in the other direction, hoping Mr. Elliot will just take the hint and leave him alone. He doesn't, his hand moves higher.

Alex clenches his fist as Mr. Elliot shifts slightly closer to him, his hand still on Alexander's lap.

He wants to tell him to stop, to back off, but he's frozen. He knows that if he were less petrified, more capable of dealing with his own anxiety, he'd be pushing Mr. Elliot away, but he isn't. He can't move. Mr. Elliot's close to him now, his hand moves up, right between Alex's legs and Alex bites hard on his lip, his hand clenches around the handle of his coffee mug.

He's seemingly frozen, watching the screen but not taking a single word in. He sees the man cut across the woman speaking to make a point but doesn't know what it was, it's as though his lips are moving wordlessly. He can only feel Mr. Elliot's hand and his own beating heart. Is it always this loud, this fast? Can he normally hear it, the steady thumping of blood and life, or has he just learned to block it out?

Mr. Elliot's other arm has reached around to hold Alex by his waist and he's trapped in this position, both the man's hands touching him.

Then, he somehow, miraculously, comes back to himself. The disassociation seems to shatter and suddenly he can hear the people on TV yelling at each other, feel the sensation of cool leather against his arm, smell breakfast cooking in the kitchen.

He stands up abruptly, Mr. Elliot's hand falls away and he moves back from the sofa, feeling his eyes water and his hands tremble.

"I'm going to get ready. I... I don't wanna be late."

Mr. Elliot smiles and takes another sip of his coffee. His eyes look... Alexander can't quite place it. It could well be triumph, but it feels crueller. This look, it flashes there for only a moment, as out of place in his usual lively, genial manner as Alex feels in this house.

He hurries to his room, grabs his coat and puts on some shoes. He doesn't know what just happened. What Mr. Elliot did, that he can comprehend, but how he reacted? How he froze, disassociated? How he wasn't even able to hear the TV. It terrifies him, that he was so powerless.

He doesn't hesitate in leaving. Mr. Elliot meets him in the hallway as he walks to the door and guides him with a hand on the small of his back.

"Be home before five thirty, it'll be dark by then."

Alex almost laughs at how ironic this is. Mr. Elliot is concerned for his safety, yet he just spent the last five minutes feeling him up. It's absurd.

"I will."

He departs quickly, speed walks down their road and towards fifth avenue. He doesn't even really have a plan as to where to go. He's got five bucks in his pocket and a book in his bag. Maybe if he can find a relatively empty coffee shop and buy something, he can hope to spend at least two hours there.

So he does that, sits on the upstairs floor of a Starbucks with his book. The coffee shop gets busier as the day goes on and he ends up having to share a table. Granted, it's large enough, but he would rather read alone.

It also doesn't help that the boy sharing the table with him is around his age and... Strangely good-looking?

Alex has looked at girls before, like this. He's had quiet crushes, he notices little things. But he's noticed boys too. Not in the way that he respects them, or wants to be their friend, but in the way that he wants to know how their hand might feel in his.

He doesn't exactly understand it. He doesn't really know how he can like boys and girls in the same way, he's still in a sort of denial concerning his affinity for the former of that equation. It's easier to ignore at school because most of the boys in his class that he does notice tend to have asshole personalities. Just because someone has freckles he likes doesn't mean they'll treat him less like scum than Miles or Carlos.

He watches the boy across from him for a few minutes over the top of his book. He's working on a laptop, brows furrowed in concentration, fingers typing at a lightning speed. He's got short black hair, buzzed down about half an inch from the scalp and dark skin. A rather worn Nike backpack sits by his feet and he doesn't wear the expensive, high-end clothes Alex always sees on the people in this area. It's refreshing.

He'd grinned apologetically at Alex when he'd asked if he could sit, shown really white teeth, his smile was bright against his dark skin. For a moment Alex had stuttered, finally gesturing wordlessly to the seat across from him.

He tries to concentrate on his book as best he can. It's a French one, more difficult than the ones he usually reads. His reading pace in French is just a little slower than that of his English one and he doesn't always know what certain idioms and phrases mean.

He's trying to figure out what a certain expression means when the boy curses loudly and groans, holding his head in his hands.

"Are- Are you okay?"

Alex looks up from his book and over at the boy, just across from him. He frowns, his eyes narrowed.

"I'm sorry, I just deleted an entire essay by accident."

Alex winces and sets down his book, leaning forward on his elbows.

"That sucks... I might know how to get it back though, I've done that before."

The boy looks up and nods quickly, his eyes hopeful. Alex feels a surge of excitement in his stomach and he grins, standing up. He's not great with internet culture, but he certainly knows how to use computers.

"How did you delete it? Did you not save it or type it out..."

The boy laughs sheepishly, it's a nice laugh. Soft.

"I closed the tab, hadn't saved anything. I'm bad with computers, sorry..."

Alex sighs in relief, that's simple stuff. If the boy had typed out his work or his laptop had shut down, he might have tried a system restore, but that's never guaranteed to work.

"Oh, that's okay, it's just shift, control plus T."

The boy grins and Alex does the short cut, a word tab opens up on the screen, a few pages of writing open. The boy sighs in relief and looks gratefully at Alex, slumping back in his seat in relief.

"Thanks so much, really."

Alex shakes his head and sits back down, smiling.

"It's nothing. I'm Alex, by the way."

The boy takes a sip of his... It might be hot chocolate. God that's cute.

"I'm Robert. What school are you in? I don't think we know each other."

Alex shakes his head and stirs his coffee, trying not to go pink.

"I'm in eighth grade, King middle."

The boy nods in recognition and pulls at the collar of his shirt, it's yellow. Suits him. He grins.

"I'm at Eastway middle, over in midtown east. Eighth grade too."

Alex nods and smiles, he knows the school. Some boys in his middle school have friends there, it's not too far. The boy gives him one last smile before returning to his essay, fingers typing at the same lightening speed as before. Alex goes back to his book, his heart fluttering annoyingly fast.

He forgets about Mr. Elliot, if only for a few hours.

But then, Robert has to leave.

"I'm going, maybe I'll see you round, Alex. I'm here a lot."

Alex grins and gives him a small wave before he shuts his laptop, shoulders his bag and walks across the crowded floor of the café, his bag swinging of sight around the corner.

He looks at his watch. It's half two. He has another three hours until he has to be at the apartment, but he can't stay in this coffee shop for much longer. They'll kick him out soon, if he doesn't leave of his own accord. He bought a three dollar coffee, that only guarantees him an hour or two.

He walks around central park for an hour or so. Reminds him of his stay with Katherine. They'd go to central park together, he'd sent James a photo once. That reminds him, he hasn't sent James anything in a few weeks now. He should figure out a way to email him sometime soon.

He walks around about three-quarters of central park in a little over an hour, eventually circling back to the entrance near the Guggenheim, where he came in.

It's just about four. He's got nowhere else go, no money and he's tired. Yet, the idea of going back to the apartment just seems so unappealing. He compromises with himself, starts at an extremely slow pace back to the Elliot's place. He gets in around twenty minutes later, the warmth of the apartment hits him, welcome. It has to be just above forty out. He's freezing, all pink cheeks and numb fingers.

He hears voices in the living room, walks in hesitantly, poking his head around the door frame. Jonathan and Mr. Elliot watch something on the TV together, the former's got his feet up on a pouffe, wearing his usual chinos and polo. Alex thinks he must be one of the only college kids in the world who can afford to dress like he does.

"Alex, hey."

Jonathan notices him first, looks around from the TV and gives him a polite smile. Alex smiles back, pulling at the zip on his coat. Mr. Elliot looks him up and down and smiles too, patting the space of couch beside him.

"What did you do with your friends?"

Alex shrugs and walks into the hallway, hanging his coat on the hook there.

"Just walked around central park for a bit."

Mr. Elliot nods and when Alex walks back into the room, he pats the space of sofa next to him again. Alex sits down hesitantly. Mr. Elliot doesn't do anything while his son's there, obviously, but that doesn't mean Alexander is much more comfortable. He sits on the edge of the couch, trying to focus on the television and feeling Mr. Elliot's eyes flicker back to him every other minute or so. He stays quiet as Jonathan and his father talk about his studies, stays even quieter when the discussion on politics starts.

The thing is, they don't seem to care about what they say in front of him about this sort of stuff. They talk about immigrants and borders and crime as a 'result' of 'lax' immigration policy, all while Alex is sat there. They either don't see how it might offend him or don't think him clever enough to understand the subtext behind their words. Alex is used to causal, indirect racism because of his foreigner status, but this seems a lot more belittling than usual. He doesn't like it, makes him feel small.

He gets up to leave after a little while, Jonathan doesn't even look up to watch him go but he feels Mr. Elliot's eyes follow him the entire way, the gaze is shrewd, piercing. Like he's seeing completely through Alex as easily as if he were made of glass. He hasn't felt this transparent in a while.

Johnathan leaves later that evening, after dinner. Alex wishes he'd decided to stay overnight, but he'd said something about meeting up for a group project early the next morning. Mr. Elliot fills up the dishwasher in the kitchen after Jonathan leaves and Alexander shuts himself up in his room. He's busy tonight, has quite a lot of homework due in for Monday. Mr. Elliot seems to have a lot to do as well, he sits in the living room with his laptop and work papers for the remainder of the evening.

He showers (the door double-checked after he'd locked it) and gets into bed at half nine. His mind is humming with repetitive, invasive thoughts and he needs some method of release, something to take his mind away from everything that's happening.

In search of a solution, he goes to his drawers. Mr. and Mrs. Elliot had bought him some hygiene products (soap, shampoo and shaving things) before he'd arrived and he'd tucked the latter of those items into his underwear drawer. He takes out the razor. It's one of those plastic ones you use a couple times and throw out afterwards, not particularly sturdy. Not made to last.

This makes it easy for him to pry apart, break the plastic handle and take out the two little blades inside. He rolls down his sock, places the razor to his skin and ten minutes later, has a collection of red, stinging gashes around his ankle. They don't take much to treat. Some water, a few dabs with a tissue, maybe he'll find some band-aids later if he feels like it. He rolls his sock back up over the injury and stands up, feeling rather hollow.

He hasn't done that since his first month or so with Katherine. It's been a while, it's been nice. Nice not to have cuts to worry about getting infected, nice not to have blades to worry about being found, injuries to worry about being seen at school. He supposes that _nice_ is over now.

He hides the blades inside a rolled up sock and gets into bed, turning off his light a second later. He only wants to sleep now, seems to be the thing he wants most these days.

When he closes his eyes however, he isn't greeted by the peaceful, dreamless sleep he desires. He'd wanted to just rest for a few hours, not have to worry about anything, not be plagued by his often seemingly omnipresent anxiety, but he doesn't get that.

He dreams about Mr. Johnson that night. About the time he'd mouthed him off, tried to fight back. Obviously, this hadn't ended well. He'd gotten a punch or two in, before he was quickly met with a volley of kicks to his side and a string of violent insults, expletives even he'd be hesitant to repeat.

He wakes up in a cold sweat, knowing he'd have been making noise in the midst of his dream, hearing his own surprised yell ring out through the quiet of the apartment. And now, the anxiety that usually builds in his chest after these dreams isn't because of Mr. Johnson, isn't because of whatever fuck up in his brain that causes these panic attacks, it's because he knows what will happen now. He knows that now, Mr. Elliot will come.

He isn't disappointed. The footsteps are quick in the hallway, assured, they're like an alarm to Alex. He tries to regain himself, pushes some hair from his eyes and commits himself to the frantic, fruitless effort of controlling his breathing. It's futile, pointless, he can't disguise what's happened. Even if he did manage to come across as relatively okay to his foster father, he knows the man will find any excuse to stay with him.

His door opens as he's trying to fit three breaths into one count, like Katherine taught him, and Mr. Elliot enters.

"Hey, kiddo, are you okay?"

He doesn't respond, his terror's only building and he can feel actual tears welling in his eyes at the knowledge of the situation he's gotten himself into. Mr. Elliot sits beside him on the bed, one of his arms finds his waist and the other pushes some stray hair from his face. Alex shudders.

He does his best to relax, finally manages to fit three breaths into one count. His breathing doesn't seem to want to slow beyond that though, tears still roll in heavy droplets down his face and he's biting hard on his lip to prevent himself from making any further noise.

"Shall I get you some water?"

Mr. Elliot's voice is soft, it's sympathetic, kind, but Alex doesn't know if he can trust any appearance Mr. Elliot puts forward anymore. The whole man is an enigma. And Alex has a feeling that if he were to one day understand the man, he wouldn't like what he'd find.

He disappears for a minute or so, coming back with a glass of water and handing it carefully to Alex. He doesn't let him hold it entirely himself, the teenager's hand is shaking far too much and the cup is heavy. He guides his hand, helping Alexander drink.

It seems like an eternity before he's relatively calm again, yet an eternity isn't near long enough. Because as soon as his breathing is close to normal, he becomes aware of Mr. Elliot's hand on his thigh.

"Alright?"

Alex sucks in a breath and nods, taking a large gulp of water and swallowing quickly. Mr. Elliot's hand moves to push some more hair from his face, behind his ear. His fingers trail slowly to Alex's mouth and brush over his lower lip, soft and invasive and deadly.

"It worries me when you get like this."

Alex is uncomfortably aware of the closing space between them so he shifts an inch or so backwards, the fingers on his lip sending chills up his spine. Mr. Elliot pays him no mind, his hand moves up his thigh and between his legs, pressing down. Alex gasps and tries to move further backwards, but there's nowhere to go, only a wall.

"Stop, please."

His voice is so quiet, timid even. He wishes it were a roar, a scream, fingernails scraping down his foster father's cheek. He wishes it were anything but his meek little protest. Mr. Elliot probably just blocks him out, because he doesn't stop. The only light source in the room is a patch of silver streetlight sitting on the wall opposite them, he feels goosebumps rising on his arms.

Mr. Elliot's hand leaves his lips and slips underneath his t-shirt to hold his waist. Alexander is fully aware of every nerve ending, every cell, every breathing, living atom of his body. It's as though he can hear the rushing of his own blood. He's aware of the hand on his waist slipping higher beneath his shirt and the other hand pressing harder.

"I said stop."

His voice isn't much stronger but with this protest he struggles back slightly, trying to push himself away. Mr. Elliot doesn't pull back either of his hands, his fingers are cool, skating over his hot skin, more insistent.

"Come on, Lex," his hand presses harder between Alex's thighs, "After all I've done for you?"

"No, I don't want to."

Mr. Elliot slides his hand further up Alex's shirt but he catches it, stopping it from moving. He presses himself backwards, against the wall and shakes his head, firmer this time.

"I'm tired, my head hearts."

Mr. Elliot's hands both withdraw and he sits back a little, still closer than Alex would like, but at the very least not touching him.

"You're tired?"

Alexander doesn't know what his response to this is supposed to be. Mr. Elliot's expression isn't clearly visible through the dim.

"Yeah, I am."

Mr. Elliot's hand squeezes lightly down on his thigh and he stands up. His fingers reach out to brush Alex's lips a final time and it's all he can do to hold back his flinch.

"Night, Alex."

"Good... Good night."

Alex watches as Mr. Elliot leaves the room and instantly, as soon as the door is slammed shut, flops back onto his bed, wanting to retch. He closes his eyes, takes long, slow breaths and fights of the nausea building inside him. He wants another shower, he wants to be clean again. He needs to scrub Mr. Elliot's touch off of him.

He doesn't sleep much that night, the next morning he looks in the bathroom mirror to see a pale, tired-looking teen staring back at him. He showers, takes longer than he should and then gets ready for school, having to rush to make time. Mr. Elliot's making breakfast while Danna cleans when he comes into the kitchen. He smiles weakly at the man and a little more warmly at the cleaner, gingerly accepting a mug of coffee from his foster father.

"Sleep okay?"

He nods, takes a bowl of cereal from Mr. Elliot and eats quickly, eyes lowered to his bowl all the while. He senses eyes on him, they could be Danna's but they're more likely Mr. Elliot's, he doesn't look up to check.

He leaves for school ten minutes later. Mr Elliot insists on giving him a lift as usual. He only agrees because he knows Mr. Elliot can't do much while he's driving, that and he has no choice.

Mr. Elliot's hand rests predictably on his thigh as they drive and he chats to the teenager while they wait in traffic. There's something between them now, a sort of tension after what happened the previous night. Neither of them will address it, but it still hangs there like an unwelcome guest you're too polite to invite to leave.

He gets out without a word, sends only a small wave to his foster father as he retreats towards the school gate.

He can't concentrate in school that day. He thinks he dozed off in chemistry while they were supposed to be working in silence and in French class he stares at his book for a solid hour, not taking a single word on the page in front of him in. Malik, one of the few bearable boys in his class, asks him if he's okay at lunchtime. This is telling because if he, the perpetually silent, sullen kid, is noticeably quiet and exhausted, he must be coming across as extremely off.

* * *

He doesn't go directly back to the apartment after school. He makes his way instead, to the subway station on fifth avenue. He's not getting a train, what he wants are the payphones outside the station. There are three of them, all in small, one-person boxes and heavily graffiti-ed.

The door handle creaks loudly, rusted with disuse. He digs into his pocket for some money and then pushes in a quarter, punching in the number he knows well by know, his social worker's. Knox made him learn it off by heart when he was thirteen, said he might need to call him one day, if there was an emergency.

He'd complained at the time, now he's glad for it.

Because, yeah, he'd talked about Russian roulette, about not wanting to accidentally shoot himself in the head. But now, he's realised that Mr. Elliot's home is the chamber with the bullet in it and he's only getting closer and closer to pulling the trigger on himself.

Alex prays that Knox'll pick up, that he's in his office, near his phone. The number rings out, goes to voicemail. Alex curses loudly, prompting stares from a few passers-by. He ignores them, pulls another quarter from his pocket and tries again.

It's on the third try that he picks up. He sounds irritated, he's evidently fed up with work, as usual.

"Hugh Knox?"

"It's Alexander."

There's a brief silence, Alex can tell Knox is surprised. Alex hardly ever calls him, not unless something really bad has happened. The last time he'd called had been right after he'd dialled 911 for Katherine.

"Is everything alright?"

Alex draws in a deep breath, he can't believe he's doing this, he's never done this before.

"I... I need a new placement."

More silence on the other end, a police car wails by. Some tourists flock into a Starbucks.

"From the Elliots? Can I ask why?"

Alexander doesn't want to say it. He doesn't want to talk about what happened.

"He's a creep."

Mr. Knox sighs on the other end, Alex can hear papers shuffling on his desk.

"It's barely been two months, Alexander."

"Yeah, and already I know he's a fucking creep."

"I assure you, foster parents undergo full background checks before they take in kids. They found nothing on Mr. Elliot."

Alex seethes, his fists are clenched tightly by his sides and he's biting his lip again. He should really stop that; he'll have no skin left on them soon.

"I guess him feeling me up every fucking day is less substantial evidence than your half-assed background checks, then."

Alex waits for the man to respond, he's so silent. Can't he just hurry up, not pause so much?

"Has he actually touched you?"

"Yes, of course he's touched me! Do you think I'd be calling you if I was just a bit freaked out?"

Mr. Knox sighs and Alexander tilts his head back, groaning in frustration. The stickers on the pay phone have all rubbed off so he can't read how much time he has. He reckons he's got at least ten minutes, but he can't be sure.

"Alex, you're not just overreacting? How can you be sure he's not just being friendly?"

Alex wants to stamp his foot, he's never been so mad, he's never been treated like such a child.

"Mr. Knox, I don't grab my friends' dicks. Do you?"

There's another brief pause.

"Alex, don't use that language."

"I think there are more important things to be dealing with than my language."

Another long sigh.

"Did you tell him to stop?"

Alex takes his forehead in his hand and nods into the receiver.

"Yeah, last night. I'm at a payphone on Fifth Avenue now."

"What about the other times, did you tell him to stop consistently?"

Alex hesitates. He never said it with words, never outright asked Mr. Elliot not to. He thinks he was pretty clear, but he never actually said no...

"Well, not with words but..."

Knox groans and Alex hears the sound of a chair creaking as he sits back.

"Alex, did you do anything to indicate that you wanted him to stop?"

"I just hoped for him to stop mostly—"

Alexander is cut off by another sigh but he continues anyway.

"But yeah, I always tried to move away. Trust me, please, he knew I was freaked out."

Mr. Knox speaks again a second later, his voice is a little more cautious this time, slower.

"Did you do anything that... That someone might interpret as invitation for this kind of behaviour or—"

Alexander wants to scream.

"No. No. No way in hell."

He wishes Mr. Knox would just understand, would just stop asking him these pointless questions and _help him_.

"Then why didn't you stop him the first time?"

Mr Knox is speaking like he's talking to a petulant child throwing a tantrum. He either doesn't believe Alex, thinks he's exaggerating or that he wanted it.

Alex isn't sure which one is the worst.

"Because I wanted to believe that I could actually find a home that I could be fucking happy in, for once. You wouldn't understand."

Knox sighs again, Alex considers asking him if he's got something up with his lungs.

"Look, I need you to tell me exactly what happened."

So Alex launches into the full story. In a dirty, dilapidated old phone box he tells Mr. Knox everything he can physically get out of his mouth without retching. He tells him about doing math homework with _him_ , coming out of the shower, eating dinner, waking up from his dreams, about what happened the previous night...

By the time he's finished, he's panicking just thinking of it all, his voice breaks a little towards the culmination of his explanation.

"Have you told anyone else about this?"

"No."

"Does anyone else know about this?"

"Danna might suspect something, but not really."

"Danna?"

"She works for them, cleans."

"Mrs. Elliot?"

"God, I hope not."

"Alex... Everything you told me is true?"

Alex blinks back tears, his stomach twists unpleasantly. Knox doubts him.

"Yes. I wouldn't lie about something like this."

"Has he... Has he done more than touch you?"

Alex groans, shakes his head and slams the receiver against his temple.

"No."

"Might he?"

"God, Knox, I don't wanna talk about this. Please, just get me another placement."

"Are you absolutely sure about this? It's a good placement, Alex. They could do well for you."

"Knox, I would rather go back to Johnson."

This shuts him up. They both know what that man was like, how much Alex despised him. If Alex would willingly go back to that place rather than stay with the Elliots, he must have good reason.

"I'll see what I can do, but I need time."

"How much time? I can't hold out much longer, Knox."

"Can you do five days? It might be less but at the very least it'll take three."

"I-I can do that, yeah, just please be quick, Knox."

An immense sense of hope swells in his chest, almost overpowering the tightness and nausea that's twisted there all day. Five days. He can do five days.

"Alex, look, if he tries anything, you need to tell him clearly to stop. Leave the house if you have to, during the day at least. Don't do anything that could provoke him to hurt you. Don't insult him, don't hit him."

"I told him to stop last night. It did shit."

"You just need to be careful, don't put yourself alone with him. Stay out as much as you can."

Alex nods, murmurs a yeah down the telephone.

"Do you... Do you have any news on Katherine, by the way?"

Mr. Knox sighs again and Alex bites down hard on the inside of his cheek.

"No, as far as I know, her condition is the same."

Alex sighs, releases the flesh of his inner cheek and pulls his bag tighter over his shoulder.

"I gotta go, Knox."

"Be careful, Alex. I'll be as quick as I can, okay."

"Okay. I'll see you."

He hangs up then, leans heavily against the glass pane of the box and closes his eyes for a few moments, resting. Five days, could even be three. All he has to do is get by until then. He walks back to the apartment slowly. Mr. Elliot isn't there when he gets in, he's still at work. He makes himself something to eat and starts on some homework in his bedroom. Five days. He only has to get through five days.

Mr. Elliot comes home at around quarter to six, just after Alex has finished the last of his homework. Alex hears the sound of his key in the lock and his footsteps in the hallway, they move from his bedroom, stay there for some time and then approach his door.

Mr. Elliot opens the door, Alex realises that he's never once knocked, and walks into his bedroom, smiling. He's in his work clothes, a dark suit and green tie, but he's discarded his shoes and bag.

"Hey, good day at school?"

Alex looks up at him from his book, a chill runs down his spine, he nods. Mr. Elliot leans against the jamb of his door, folds his arms and smiles.

"What are you reading?"

He closes his book, _L'Étranger_ by Albert Camus and shows Mr. Elliot the cover. It's difficult, he's having a hard time with some of the more obscure references and vocabulary. His French is fluent, but it's not like he had conversations with his mom about sartrism or whatever.

"I read the translation of that when I was, oh, seventeen or so."

Alex hums in false interest and opens the book again, staring down at the page before him. The word that first hits him is _fuite_. It means flight, or escape. It's a funny coincidence that his eyes landed on the thing he currently wants most of all. Five days, Alex reminds himself. He can do five days.

"I'd imagine it's quite difficult, how do you find it?"

Alex is tempted to say that he'd find it a lot easier if Mr. Elliot left him alone, but he shrugs instead.

"Not too bad."

He waits for Mr. Elliot to leave; he doesn't. Alex's foster father walks towards his bed and sits down next to him. His eyes glance over the books and papers across Alexander's bed, some copy books, a math textbook, his pencil case.

"Had that math test yet?"

He had it the other day, hadn't gotten it back yet.

"Yeah. The other day."

"How do you think you did? Did those negative x formulae come up?"

He nods, pretends to flick carefully through his geography book, like he's looking for something. Mr. Elliot's not touching him, but he's closer than Alex would like. To be perfectly honest, Alex wouldn't be happy unless he was at least one hundred yards from his foster father at all times, but he thinks at least half a yard or so isn't so unreasonable a request.

"What do you want for dinner? I could make something, or we could order in."

"I'm not too bothered."

Mr. Elliot shrugs and pats Alex's thigh, smiling. He's so nonchalant about all this, so uncaring. He barely even bothers to hide his intentions anymore. Then, he stands up.

"I'll see what we have. We can decide on something later."

He leaves then, his footsteps recede down the hallway into the kitchen. Alex is left alone with his book.

* * *

Mr. Elliot doesn't do much at dinner. His hand rests on Alex's knee beneath the table, but that's all he does. It doesn't more higher, it's just there. He chats to Alex as they eat, trying to wring some form of conversation out of the teenager. He's only partially successful, because even when he raises things he knows Alex's interested in, he only gets sentence long answers.

Alex doesn't dream that night, luckily. He wakes up in the morning feeling hollow, lethargic still, but at the very least well rested. He goes down to the kitchen, greets Danna and makes them both some coffee, as usual. Mr. Elliot comes down a minute or so later, brushes his hand across Alex's shoulder. This time, Alex does his best not to flinch. Danna's clever, watchful as a hawk, and as much as he hates Mr. Elliot, he doesn't want anyone to be wise to what's going on with him. He'd rather this whole business end quickly and painlessly. Well, as painfully as it can end, damage has already been done.

School that day is better. He sits with Malik at lunch, thinks he's getting closer to him. The boy hasn't said anything about seeing his scars, nor has he treated Alex any differently since the incident. Alex actually finds himself laughing and joking around when he's with him.

He only hopes the placement Knox finds him is near enough to this school that he doesn't have to change. He's been to so many middle schools around New York, they all kind of blend into each other. All dirty gyms, battered textbooks one a pair, graffiti-ed desks and boys with tough fists. So, if he's even remotely happy somewhere, he'll do his damnedest to stay there.

After school, he's tempted to back to that phone box an call Knox. He wants to ask if he's found a home for him, when he can move out. But he only called yesterday, he has a feeling Knox will be very short with him if he disturbs him again. Besides, nothing's happened with Mr. Elliot he needs to tell him about.

So he goes home, does his homework and cleans his room. Mr. Elliot comes home at his usual time, greets him in the hallway and then starts on dinner. Alex reads until it's time to eat. Mr. Elliot's a good cook, Alex will grudgingly give him that. The food's good, it lacks the homely warmth of Katherine's soups or the spice and flavour of his mother's arroz con grandules, but it's definitely not the inedible stuff he'd be given at Mrs. Newson's.

"You've finished your homework, haven't you?"

Alex nods, twirls some of the tagliatelle around his fork and takes a sip of water.

"There's a new film on Amazon Prime, I thought we could watch it. It's by some French director, I thought you'd like it."

Alex hesitates, sets down his fork, feeling suddenly a little nauseous. He's now uncomfortably aware of the hand on his knee, it had moved there almost as soon as he'd sat down. He'd registered it at first, but now he' sort of become numb to all of this man's touches.

"I'm sort of tired. I mean... If the film's two hours..."

Mr. Elliot shakes his head, takes a bite of his pasta.

"It's about an hour and a half. Anyway," he checks his Rolex watch, "It's not even seven yet."

Alex's doesn't speak for a few moments, pushes some pasta around his plate.

"I was gonna finish my book..."

"Ah, you'll have plenty of time to read it, you'll enjoy the film. Anyway," he smiles over the rim of his glass,"you've finished all your homework."

Alex nods slowly, his appetite suddenly depleted. He doesn't have a way out of watching this film. Maybe all Mr. Elliot wants is to watch this, maybe it will be alright. Even so, the idea of it makes his stomach dangerously close to emptying itself of his dinner.

"I suppose, yeah."

Mr. Elliot smiles, picks up his empty plate and rinses it off at the sink. Alex picks up his own, half-full plate and sets it down by the sink.

"I'll bring it in for lunch tomorrow," he assures his foster father. Just because, even though he's growing to detest this man, he hates wasting food as much. He puts the remaining pasta into a tupperware box and puts it in the fridge.

Alex sits on the sofa, almost stiffly, Mr. Elliot much more languidly, casually beside him a moment later. The film starts, it's in French but with subtitles.

"Do you speak any other languages?"

Alex can't help but be curious.

"Yeah, Italian. But not French, I'm not trilingual like you. Really, it's impressive, three at your age."

Alex shrugs, turns his attention back to the screen, where the opening credits are just ending.

It's about forty-five minutes into the film when Mr. Elliot's hand rests on his knee. Alex starts slightly, looks over to his foster father. The man's staring resolutely at the screen, he doesn't even turn to look at Alex.

Alex gulps, turns back to the screen, bites down hard on his lip. Mr. Elliot's hand does what it usually does over the next ten minutes; it moves higher, apologetically. Alex winces when it stops right between his legs, pressing down a little.

He shifts away from the touch, but he doesn't have much space to move into, the arm of the sofa is only a few inches from his side. His stomach is in that floating state you feel going up in an elevator, except that this isn't going away. It's horrible, he feels like he's going to be sick.

Mr. Elliot moves to be closer beside him and Alex can't concentrate on what's happening on screen. Frankly, he isn't even trying. Somehow, the words being said barely reach him, they're warped, like he's hearing them from underwater.

His thoughts are only on the man beside him, they flash through solutions: Moving away, pushing him off, standing up... Then, he remembers what Knox advised him. To tell him to stop, as clearly as he could. He turns his head to his foster father, his voice comes out a little choked.

"Stop it."

Mr. Elliot doesn't, he acts like he hasn't even heard him, even though Alex is sure he had. He spoke clearly, loudly, Mr. Elliot knows exactly what he's doing. Alex feels his throat close in panic and he tries to move back, but Mr. Elliot's other hand grabs his waist.

"Let me go."

He knows he sounds pathetic, his voice is small and breathy, he can barely inhale and exhale. His foster father doesn't seem to hear him, he's so close now, If Alex were to lean forward an inch, they'd be nose to nose.

The film is still playing, but neither of them are watching. Alexander can hear an argument on screen, _je te faisais confiance! Tu me faisais mal!_

Alex is pressed against the sofa as Mr. Elliot leans over him. He's breathing the word stop over and over, but he's not moving, he can't, he's frozen.

* * *

Alex's skin is red raw under the burning spray. The insides of his elbows, his neck and his ankles are dotted with pinpricks of blood from where the loofah's removed layer upon layer of his skin. The clothes on the bathroom floor are slightly damp from all the steam in the shower room, they smell like the lavender soap he's used and vomit from when he threw up into the toilet ten minutes ago.

He closes his eyes, tilts his face upwards into the spray and feels a shiver run through him, despite the heat of the water. He wraps his arms tightly around himself and tries to take several long, deep breaths. He still wants to clean himself, scrub harder at his skin, but he already stings all over and he's long since washed away any actual, lingering traces of what happened from his skin.

He steps out of the shower and dresses with shaking hands then gets into bed gingerly, wincing at the brush of fabric over his sensitive skin. He feels disconnected from his brain, none of what's happened is sinking in. His bed sheets are cold, he shivers beneath them, pushing some damp hair from his face, out from under his cheek. Alex curls up, draws his knees up to his chest and buries his face between them, sobs racking his body, but no tears falling down his face.

He falls asleep just over an hour later, after eventual exhaustion overcomes his anxiety and horrible nausea. He's wrecked, tried, wrung out, ready for nothing but hours upon hours of sleep. And what does come is sleep so undisturbed, that thankfully, he doesn't even dream.

He wakes up to someone's hand on his shoulder, shaking him gently. His eyes snap open and he sits bolt upright, pushing himself backwards from Mr. Elliot instantly.

"Hey, Alex, school, remember?"

He sits stock still in his bed, eyes huge with terror, his heart hammers against the inside of his ribcage and the only things rushing through his tired mind are memories from the previous evening. The man watches him kindly, as though what transpired had been a dream on Alex's part. Alex wishes it were.

But there's no way it could have been a dream, not when he looks down at his throat, sees the dark pink splotches imprinted there. Not when he sees Mr. Elliot staring at them too. No, all of that really, really happened.

"Get dressed, okay, I'll run you to school."

Mr. Elliot smiles, he'd already dressed, and turns to walk back out of the room. Alex feels his eyes prick with tears and he holds his face in his hands, trying to take deep breaths. He needs to get dressed, he's going to be late to school. But simultaneously, the idea of pushing through five, hour-long classes appeals to him almost as little as spending the day here with Mr. Elliot.

He gets up with a supreme effort and reaches for some clothes. The things he wore yesterday lie discarded by his dresser. His chest seizes up as he looks at them, remembers hands at the waistband of those very jeans and the hem of that very shirt. He kicks them roughly away from the dresser, takes a steadying breath and rummages for some older clothes, ones Mr. Elliot didn't buy him, more beaten up ones.

He dresses slowly, wincing at the sensitivity of his skin and the stiffness of his limbs caused by his curled up, awkward sleeping position. He doesn't eat breakfast, instead drinks a mug of coffee silently at the kitchen table. Mr. Elliot drives him to school and when his hand reaches out to touch Alex's thigh, the teenager flinches hard and pushes himself against the door of the car, as far away from the man as possible. For whatever reason, Mr. Elliot doesn't ignore him this time. His hand moves back to the gear and they drive in silence for the rest of the journey. Maybe he's willing to give Alex some time, after what happened last night. How kind of him.

School is hell. Everyone's so loud and his entire body aches. His head hurts from all the noise and his own throbbing exhaustion. He has Spanish class before lunch, they watch a film. He falls asleep on his desk and gets called out in front of everyone for it. His teacher is so clearly disappointed in him. Normally Alex is her best student, now he's not even bothering to quietly watch a film.

Alex doesn't sit with Malik at lunch, he walks straight by him with his apple and bottle of water. He ignores the slight hurt on his friend's face, knows it would be replaced by disgust if he knew. If he _knew._

He eats outside instead, away from the main school building, behind the gym. No one really comes back here, so he should be left alone. He can barely eat. The water he can force down, but when he gets to his apple he feels as though he's choking the second he takes a bite. It's discarded, half-eaten into the bin after only a few minutes.

He pushes through math class at the end of the day and leaves the school as soon as homeroom ends.

He doesn't go back to the apartment, instead heads straight towards fifth avenue, to the rows of public phones there. He's calling Knox, because he thought he'd be able to survive five days, but now he doesn't think he'll be able to survive five minutes.

He pushes in one of the two quarters he has in his pocket and prays Knox will pick up quicker. If it takes three calls like last time, Alex won't have enough money to get through to him.

Luckily, his social worker picks up on the first try, his voice is business-like and professional, maybe he's having a better day than when Alex last called him.

"Hugh Knox?"

"It's Alex."

There's a long sigh on the other end and Alex slumps against the wall of the phone box, exhausted, terrified.

"Are you okay, did something happen?"

Alex bursts into tears. They're all bottled up inside him from last night. He hadn't cried when it'd happened, nor afterwards in the shower, nor today at school. He supposes all that repressing takes its toll, because now he can't stop the tears.

"Alex, I need you to talk to me, where are you? Are you hurt?"

He regains himself quickly, wipes the tears from his face with a rough, aggressive hand and takes a deep breath.

"I'm at a payphone on fifth. I'm- I'm not hurt."

He lowers his eyes, closes them and takes a few, long deep breaths.

"What happened, Alex? Did Mr. Elliot do something?"

He nods, then realises this isn't an answer, Mr. Knox can't see him.

"Yes."

"Alex, can you... can you specify? Did he... Did he force himself on you?"

Alex takes his face in his hands.

"Not... I-I don't know, sort of, oh God... Not really," he breaths out, his stomach drops at the thought, Mr. Knox doesn't seemed convinced by his indecisiveness.

"But I take it things went further than they have before?"

Alex chokes on another sob and nods, forcing out a yes and trying not to think of hands pulling down his jeans, tugging at his shirt.

"Knox, I need... I need to get out of this place."

"I understand, Alex. I'm looking into a place nearby the Elliots'. I called them earlier, they seem like a good family. I'll press them a little, see if I can get them to take you tomorrow."

Alex doesn't feel the well of happiness he might expect, he feels overwhelming relief, but happiness? Not quite. He can't, not with what happened yesterday so sharp in his mind.

"Tomorrow? Really?"

"I'll try, I'll call Mr. Elliot tonight and tell him you're being moved. I'll have to, just arriving at your door is unheard of."

Alex gulps, his stomach drops. How's Mr. Elliot going to react? What's going to happen if he realises Alex told on him?

"You can't tell him I asked you to move me. Please, he'll be angry."

"I don't plan on it, Alex. I'll tell him that... I'll say we found an error somewhere in the paperwork and you have to be moved on."

Alex wonders if Mr. Elliot will buy this, but hell, it doesn't matter. Alex is still being moved, maybe even tomorrow.

"Just... Please, try to get this family to agree. I-I'm scared, Knox."

"I will Alex, I'm sorry about this. _I'm so sorry_. I'll get you out soon."

Alex takes in another long, deep breath.

"Knox, what if he tries something tonight?"

There's silence on his social worker's end for a moment, Alex holds his breath.

"Do you think that's likely?"

"Yeah."

Alex isn't even going to bother denying this, because he knows he'd be lying if he did.

"I can... I might be able to put you up somewhere tonight, move you tomorrow morning?"

Alex's entire body sags with relief and he actually laughs at it all. This time a twinge of happiness does tug in his chest. It grows into a warm, safe feeling inside him and he smiles slightly.

"Knox, please, if you can do this I swear, I'll never complain again, not about _anything_."

His social worker's tone is gruff, even fond when he replies.

"I'll call Mr. Elliot now and pick you up at half six. I don't want you there any longer."

Alex nods, stuffs his hand into his coat pocket and closes his eyes, breathing deeply.

"Thanks Knox. You're not actually that shit of a social worker."

There's a faint laugh on the other end and the man speaks a final time.

"Pack a bag, Alex. I'll see you later."

"See you later."

He hangs up.

He packs his bag as soon as he gets back to the apartment, throws clothes and books and school things all into his duffel. It really is too small, he needs to find a bigger one somewhere. He leaves some things out, he will until the last minute because otherwise Mr. Elliot will know he was forewarned about leaving. He has to act as though the first he hears of this is when Mr. Elliot comes home and tells him.

Which happens about an hour later.

Alex hears the click of a key in the door and a loud slam emanate from down the hallway. There are loud footsteps across the floor of the entrance hall and through the quiet of the house, he hears Mr. Elliot's voice yell out to him, angrier than it's ever been.

"Alexander!"

He flinches. He's never called him by his full name. He's never yelled at him either, not once. He stands up from his bed, kicks his duffel bag into a corner and walks slowly out into the corridor.

Mr. Elliot stands in the hallway, he wears his usual expensive suit, messenger bag slung over his shoulder. The difference however, lies in his expression and eyes. They're furious, narrowed, dark. Alexander automatically takes a step backwards, his heart pounding, his head hurting with fear. Mr. Elliot's got the call, _he knows_.

"You brat, you fucking brat."

He storms over to him until they're stood only a few inches away from each other, Alex pressed up against the hallway wall. He calculates his options quickly. He could play dumb, he could be defensive or he could just agree, say yeah, of course he asked to be moved. His head spins with terror, his vision swims.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You absolutely know what I'm talking about, you little shit!"

He flinches away, expecting a hit, but doesn't get one. Mr. Elliot leers over him, so much taller and stronger than Alex.

"I'm in my office, working, and I get a call. It's your social worker, telling me some bullshit about paperwork, that you're being moved!"

He near yells this, prodding his finger into Alex's face, his chest heaving with rage.

"You called him, you told him!"

He's definitely yelling now, Alex closes his eyes, his entire body rigid with fear and anticipation. He's just waiting for the first slap or punch to land. Mr. Elliot doesn't strike him though, his fists are clenched and he's seething with rage but he hasn't reached out, not yet.

"When did you do it, huh? When?" He demands, his entire body caging Alex in, like he's a prison of flesh and bone and blood.

"I called him twice, today and the day before yesterday."

Alex doesn't see the point in denying this anymore. Knox will be here in under an hour, Mr. Elliot can't do anything to him. Nothing serious anyway, a slap or two, sure. But he can't _hurt_ him.

The man seethes and Alex almost laughs, relief breaking out inside chest like thousands of little supernovas, he's getting out, Mr. Elliot can't touch him again.

"You creole shit, going behind my back, after everything I've done for you!"

He grabs Alexander's collar, tugging hard, making him stumble rightward, tripping over his ankle. Mr. Elliot lets his shirt go and he falls to the floor, elbow banging painfully against the wooden floorboards.

"What the hell did you expect me to do? Of course I fucking called him."

Alex scuffles quickly backwards on the floor, away from Mr. Elliot and stands up, his hands defensively reached up in front of him; protection.

"I shouldn't have expected any better from someone like you," the man snarls, "you take what I give you, act like a fucking tease and go behind my back all the while!"

Alex's vision goes white with fury. A tease? A fucking tease? He resists the urge to spit at him, knowing logically that the action will only increase the ideas Mr. Elliot has about 'people like him'.

"I shouldn't be surprised about you! You entitled bastard, you think you can _buy_ me? I'd rather gouge out my own eyes than touch you again, don't fucking flatter yourself."

Alex hasn't ever spoken to someone like he is now. Not really. He's mouthed off plenty of foster parents before but he's never screamed at them, he's never been so outright insolent. Mr. Elliot advances on him, grabs his wrist in a tight grip and pulls him close, staring at him with hate-filled eyes.

"You're of no use to me anymore, I don't need pathetic foster kids like you sniffing around my house for money, for clothes, for food. I hope you've packed your bag."

He releases his wrist and steps back from him, as though disgusted by Alex. It makes him feel as dirty, as unclean as he's been telling himself he is.

"I'd rather be starving on the streets than live like you do, it makes me sick, how you behave," he retorts, desperate to have the last word.

Mr. Elliot turns away from him, walking back down the corridor purposefully, leaving Alex crumpled against the wall, still yelling.

"And by the way, Danna's fucking Dominican!"

Mr. Elliot just disappears into his bedroom.

He closes his eyes, pushes some hair from his face and takes five deep breaths. He holds his face in his hands, indulges in a minute or so of tears and collects himself eventually. He has things to get done.

He finishes packing his bag, tidies his room and washes his hands a few last times under the hottest water he can manage. He hears the front door open just as he's drying off his hands, knows it can't be Mr. Elliot answering Knox. It's not half six yet and anyway, he didn't hear the bell ring.

He walks out into the hallway to see Danna stood there, putting the spare key back in her pocket and reaching to her wrist for a hairband.

"Danna."

She looks up, smiles when she sees who it is and pulls him into a quick hug. He tries not to flinch.

"I'm leaving today, Danna."

She steps back and frowns, her hand falling from where it's tying her mass of dark curls.

"Leaving, why?"

He waves his hand, smiles sadly and shrugs.

"Life of a foster kid, I practically live out of a duffel bag."

He's evading the truth but if she notices, she doesn't say anything. Instead, they walk towards the kitchen together. Alex pulls a mug from the cupboard and makes her some coffee, like old times. He won't drink any himself though. He's done with this place and all it has to offer. They talk for a little while, but it's getting closer and closer to six thirty. Knox will ring the intercom any minute now and Alex will leave his place for good.

"Una cosa más, Danna. Deberías salir de aquí..."

 _One more thing Danna. You should get out of here..._

She turns to look at him, her eyes narrowed. Alex gulps. She's shrewd, looks like she could see right through him.

"¿Qué quieres decir? ¿Qué pasó?"

 _What do you mean? What happened?_

Alex shifts slightly on his feet and looks away, shrugs.

"No quieres trabajar para él."

 _You don't want to work for him._

Danna considers him for a moment. She looks very much like she'd like to ask him more, say something. But she doesn't. She closes her mouth, nods slightly and turns back to her cleaning. Alex knows he'll miss her, wishes he had some way to contact her after he leaves.

The doorbell rings ten minutes later. Alexander isn't sure whether he should get it or if Mr. Elliot will. He sticks his head out of the kitchen and peers cautiously into the hallway. He sees Mr. Elliot appear round the corner, at the far end of the hallway and walk towards the door.

Knox's eyes go straight to Alexander when the door's opened, they run a quick, furtive scan over his body for injuries, thankfully, finding none. Mr. Elliot greets him through half gritted teeth and a clenched jaw, Mr. Knox barely acknowledges him but a brief hello and a not-so-subtle look of disgust.

"Alex, do you have your stuff?"

He nods, runs quickly into his bedroom and grabs his duffel bag. He doesn't even bother to take a last look around, he just wants to get out of this place.

Mr. Knox and Mr. Elliot stand in tense, heavy silence when he returns, neither of them are looking at each other. The elephant in this room is about as big as Mr. Elliot's ego. He moves quickly to stand beside Mr. Knox, his eyes trained on Mr. Elliot's collar.

"I'll be in touch soon about the final paperwork, it shouldn't be more than a signature or two."

Mr. Elliot merely nods, tersely, and fixes Alexander with a last, piercing stare, it's as though he's trying to seal everything he's done to him, close it off in a way that isn't humiliating for him, only painful for Alex. It works.

The door closes and Mr. Knox walks Alex back through the apartment building and out to the car outside. They stand for a moment or two outside the car door, not speaking to each other, something akin to understanding passing between them. Alex takes a small intake of breath, then he steps forward and hugs Mr. Knox quickly, tightly before stepping back. The man smiles slightly, sadly and opens the car door for him to sit down.

Alex leans his head against the cold glass of the car window and closes his eyes, not even opening them as Mr. Knox starts the engine and begins to drive away. He feels tears slide down his face as they drive past exquisitely decorated apartment blocks and shiny, sleek office buildings. Mr. Knox turns around as they wait in traffic to look at him, but he doesn't say anything. He probably knows enough about teenagers to realise when they want to be left alone. Anyway, what could he possibly say to Alex to make any of this better?

Alex, well, Alex just wants a bed to sleep in, preferably for a long, long time. He's tired of having to fight tooth and nail, constantly, for survival. He just wants, for once, for his life to settle into, at the very least, a clear-cut, tranquil routine. He's tired of being the poor kid, he's tired of being the bruised kid, the abused kid, the weird kid. He wants to be able to make friends with his classmates without fear of him being moved far away from them, to a new school. He wants stability.

But right now, sleep will have to do.


	37. Chapter 35

**Hey guys, new chapter. Thanks for putting up with my super irregular updates, I'll try to get better, I swear!**

 **I've made a pinterest account and created mood boards for the characters basically, it's pretty cool, it's Anais Levins, so check it out if you want. Two of you I think follow me already, which is cool.**

 **Trigger warnings: Suicide discussion, hospitals, trauma, mention of underage drinking, unhealthy parent-child relationships.**

Eliza had never been to this hospital before. She could remember visiting her grandma when she was ill a few years ago, but that had been all the way up in Albany, a long way from Newport. This was the nearest one to their town, just on the outskirts of the main city, it was a relatively small building, two blocks of grey and white cladding and a newly built ER wing, designed by someone who evidently hadn't considered how a sleek, rounded white entrance might compliment the 60's era cuboid architecture of the main building.

Eliza's thoughts were digressing. There were more important matters to be dealing with than her distaste for the hospital's architecture. She made her way up to the main desk in the reception nervously, trying to ignore the echo of her footsteps as they rang quietly out through the hallway. The place was almost eerily empty, Lafayette hadn't yet arrived to bring her up to the ward.

He'd called her back yesterday, as he'd promised. The teenager had confirmed Eliza's suspicions that Alexander was in hospital, but hadn't disclosed as to why this might be. Eliza, aware she'd already been pushy and forward in the face of a possibly sensitive subject, hadn't pushed for the answer right then. She'd deal with that today.

She waited there, on one of the carpeted, scratchy chairs opposite the desk, until Lafayette came through some double doors at the far end of the room. He was as tall, lanky and toned as ever in his tank top, yet Eliza fancied she saw slightly less flesh on the bones of his face and darker circles beneath his eyes. He was dressed slightly differently to his usual suave, fashion-conscious self. Though wearing his usual expensive brands, Eliza got the impression he'd taken much less care assembling the outfit than he might normally. As though he'd stopped caring very much about that sort of thing.

"Eliza!"

He jogged over as she stood up and embraced her tightly, his long arms wrapping completely around her shorter frame in a tight embrace. Eliza closed her eyes for a moment, savoured the reunion with an old friend and stepped back, smiling.

"How are you? Are you alright?"

Lafayette waved his hand dismissively, airily in an almost laughably French manner.

"I am fine, it is not me you need worry about."

He said this jovially, intoned with his usual French accent, but the words themselves, or rather the meaning behind them, were slightly less cheerful. _It is not me you need worry about._ So she did have to worry about Alex? Her fears hadn't been misplaced then? Was he very ill?

"Well, all the same, I've missed you."

He smiled, he'd always had a nice smile. It invited trust, made you feel safe. It actually did tell a lot about his personality, his smile. Eliza could think of few people safer and more trustworthy than Lafayette.

"Well, Alex is anxious to see you, shall we go?"

He held the door open for her as they left in the direction of Alex's room, ever the gentlemen. It wasn't one of those annoying, grand, 'chivalrous' gestures however, it seemed subconscious. Eliza hadn't hung out with the teenager in a while, she'd nearly forgotten how much she loved his little idiosyncrasies, his politeness, so contrasting to how some boys acted around girls.

They walked through the hallways of the hospital, past various wards for children, adults, the elderly and seemingly everything else in between. They often had to stop to allow nurse wheeling patients or equipment to and from different parts of the hospital by. Eventually, they reached a quiet corner of the building, near the west wing, and moved towards the entrance of a long, airy looking corridor. Above the set of oak double doors was a sign, _Children's psychiatric ward._

Eliza frowned slightly and quickened her pace, scanning quickly over the other signs on the doors and through the open entrances of the wards on either side of her. A psychiatric ward? Why was Alex here, what had happened?

Lafayette stopped at a door adjacent to the window at the very end of the corridor and punched in a quick code on the lock securing it. He smiled quickly at Eliza, turned the handle and pushed the door open.

It was a modestly sized room furnished with a bed, three chairs, a table and some cupboards. Eliza didn't focus much on these details, her attention turned instantly to the teenager sat on the chair directly opposite the door they'd just come through.

Alex was thin and sallow looking, he had a starved smile and his jeans hung awkwardly over his narrow hips, reminiscent to Eliza, perhaps cruelly, of a scarecrow. He stood up as soon as he laid eyes upon them and started quickly towards her, fingers fidgeting and shoulders marginally, almost undetectably stiff. Eliza was good a reading people though, she didn't miss this.

What Eliza didn't know was Alex actually looked better today than he had previously. His under-eye circles, though still noticeable, we more diminished than prior visits and though his cheekbones were still very prominent, his face seemed at least slightly fuller. Being made eat under the strict eye of experienced, trained nurses had its perks.

"Alex!"

He pulled her into a quick, solid hug, thin arms around her middle and head rested gently on her shoulder. His grip was tight, almost as though he was trying to compensate for his lacklustre appearance with a firm, strong hold. Eliza might have been reading too far into this, he could simply have been excited to see her, but her gut told her he was definitely nervous.

"Liza, I've missed you."

He pulled back and scanned her appearance, taking in her dark jeans and striped top, the Gucci bag slung over her shoulder. She'd not been sure what to wear. What was appropriate garb for visiting a sick friend in hospital? She'd decided to go understated, but her bag had been the only one appropriate, so she'd brought it, despite the fact that it screamed wealth.

Alex sat back down and motioned for Eliza to take a seat beside him. He sat rather casually, languidly on his. His legs dangled over the first armrest and his back rested against the second. It was completely averse to Eliza's neat, knees together position. Lafayette fell somewhere in between.

"Well, I... Are you alright, what happened? Why are you here? I've been so worried, Alex."

Lafayette looked away at this and Alex sighed, his fingers twitching and drumming against his thigh in a nervous, irregular pattern.

"Look, first things first, I don't want you to worry, okay. I'm doing fine, I'm gonna be okay. The last thing I need is people stressing over me."

Eliza nodded silently, her mind buzzing insatiably, running through and analysing idea after situation after circumstance.

"Maybe five or six days ago I took an overdose. I'm gonna be fine. I'm still here, I just need to rest up for another week or so before I can get back to my life."

He let the first part of his explanation out in a rush, trying to get the news out as quickly as he could. His second sentence was slower, more calculated. He evidently hoped that if he seemed calm and nonchalant, she would be too. He was silent for a few moments after letting this out, they all were. Lafayette played with his hair, Eliza was frozen in her seat and Alex kicked his heel into the leg of his chair a few times his brows furrowed.

And Eliza, well, Eliza felt awful. She'd spent the last three days pestering Hercules, John and Lafayette about what had happened, not bothering to consider whether she might be rampaging blindly into a sensitive, still very raw topic for them. Lafayette was practically Alex's brother, Hercules one of his best friends and John... Well, there were even rumours that they were dating. And she'd gone and bothered them until they gave in. Now she'd just learned that Alex had tried to kill himself.

And she'd thought he was on drugs.

Lafayette rolled his eyes from his chair, evidently displeased at Alex's summary of the events. To be fair to the French teenager, his foster brother did sound like he was leaving out significant portions of the event, an obvious attempt to make it sound much less painful than it probably was.

"Alex... I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have... God, I had no idea."

The teenager smiled awkwardly and shrugged, his main attention seemed to be on his nails.

"Well, you cared about me. You came to see me. It's more than I could have asked for."

Eliza rested her hand on his arm and leant into him, her eyes wide and earnest.

"Of course I came! Alex, I don't see you any differently. I'm just glad you're getting help."

Lafayette smiled at that, as did Alex, and Eliza crossed her legs, scooting closer towards her friends.

Alexander started to remember exactly why he'd clicked so easily with Eliza. He realised again how compatible they were, how easily a conversation flowed between them. He'd had misgivings about Eliza knowing what had happened at first, yet he couldn't shake the feeling of safety her presence gave him. He couldn't shake the vague notion that things... Things might be okay one day.

* * *

Hercules set down his phone and stretched out on the sofa. Lafayette was leaving the hospital now, going home on the bus. John, adversely, was about to depart to visit Alex. Laf had invited Hercules over, he'd admitted he didn't really want to be home alone and Hercules hadn't been around there in a while.

"You're going to see Laf, right?"

Hercules nodded in his usual, quiet manner and yawned. He wasn't sleeping much these days. He could sense the smile on his friend's face, he didn't need to look over to see it. John could be so annoying sometimes.

"Hmm, what's the situation on that front, then? Chance for romantic times?"

"I swear, John, you cannot shut up about that, can you?"

"What kind of friend would I be if I did?"

* * *

Lafayette answered the door fidgeting, pale, his hair loose around his face. Hercules smiled at him, tilted his head in concern and stepped over the threshold.

"Laf, hey, everything okay?"

The French boy smiled weakly and stepped aside for him to come in, guiding him through the hallway with a hand on the small of his back. The house was warm but only the downstairs lights were turned on, the upper floor seemed to be completely empty. They sat down in the living room and Lafayette sighed loudly, leaning his head back over the arm of the sofa, upside down. Hercules watched him apprehensively for a moment, about to speak, when he beat him to it.

"I can't be here, I can't go up to where I found him."

Hercules instantly knew what he was talking about. Lafayette had found Alex unconscious that morning, when he'd overdosed, lying across the threshold of his bedroom. Lafayette had said extremely little about it, just that George had checked Alex's vitals and they'd taken him to the ER. It had no doubt been very traumatic, Hercules imagined finding someone he loved half-dead, pale with blue lips and sunken eyes, lying across the floor...

He imagined finding Lafayette like that, long limbs crumpled around him, chest barely moving, unresponsive. It chilled him to the very bone.

"I... I'm sorry. I understand. I wouldn't either."

Lafayette sat up and suddenly pushed himself right up against Hercules, hugging him, his breath warm on his neck. Hercules' heart fluttered slightly and hesitantly lifted his hand to rub between his friend's shoulders gently. His stomach constricted, he had to push down the rush of desire and affection filling him. This wasn't the time.

"Do you want something to drink?" His voice was muffled yet eager against Hercules' chest.

Hercules shrugged, trying not to let himself become distracted by the feeling of fluffy hair against his neck or warm body heat pressed to his chest. Then, suddenly, Lafayette sprung backwards and hopped off Hercules, leaving the teenager cold.

"What do you want? I think there's some whiskey in the cabinet under the sink and we have cans of coke in the fridge to mix it with. Or there's beer in the fridge too, if you want some of that."

Hercules stared at his friend for a long moment, swallowed and tilted his head slightly. His mouth was dry, his eyes narrowed.

"I was thinking more along the lines of some tea or coffee."

"Oh," Lafayette looked a little disappointed, "yeah, we have that too."

Hercules watched his friend for another moment or two, took in his slightly trembling hands and hastily pushed back hair. He'd been running his hands through it before Hercules had arrived, in stress. That was clear now.

"Laf, are you sure you're okay?"

The French teenager nodded quickly, beamed and spun on his heel, starting towards the kitchen. His footsteps were light, too light, and he had an almost exaggerated spring in his step.

"Well, I'll have some coffee from the machine. But we have tea too, and those herb things you like so much."

"Herbal teas, Laf."

"Whatever."

They turned on a TV show then and watched a few short episodes. Lafayette started, during the very first episode, sat upright against the sofa. Comfortably, but at least half a metre from Hercules. By the end of the third, however, his head was on his friend's lap.

Hercules sat there contentedly, idly stroking Lafayette's head as they watched a fourth episode. Lafayette only let about three or four people touch his hair, that was Hercules, Martha and John. Sure, Alex too, but he wasn't prone like Hercules or Martha to play with it absently, he really only did that with John.

"When do you think John'll be back? He could hang here, or..."

Lafayette rolled over onto his back and stretched, looking up tiredly at Hercules.

"I don't know, but that sounds cool. I'd text him, but," he attempted to move, groaned loudly and flopped back down on Hercules' lap with a small grin.

"I can't."

Hercules toyed with some of his baby hairs fondly and closed his eyes, leaning back over the couch.

"How did Eliza react to all of this?"

Lafayette's eyes were still closed, he spoke softly, as though through sleep.

"She took it well. Said she felt awful about pestering us though."

"I don't hold it against her. I'd be pretty annoying if it were you sick and I knew nothing."

Hercules looked down at Lafayette as he said this, felt his knuckle graze his jaw. The French teenager's eyes opened, half-lidded, bright and he started humming a tune under his breath, one Hercules had to strain to make out.

 _And I would walk five hundred miles, and I would walk five hundred more..._

Hercules laughed and pushed Lafayette playfully, the French teenager curling up on his lap and closing his eyes, still grinning.

"You're an idiot, Gilbert de Motier, Lafayette-Washington."

"You missed like seven names, hon."

Hercules grinned, leant his head back over the couch and sighed, beginning to count on his fingers.

"So it's Marie-Joseph Paul Yves... Roch Gilbert de Motier Marquis de Lafayette-Washington?"

He felt the teenager below him nod and he smiled in satisfaction, thinking for a moment.

"Isn't 'Marquis' like old royalty?"

"Yeah. It probably doesn't actually mean I'm related to the old monarchy, but it's always been a name in my mom's family. Like how you Americans have 'King'."

Hercules nodded in understanding and turned his attention back towards the television, watching with only vague interest.

"Mulligan is Irish."

Lafayette rolled onto his side so his cheek was pressed into Hercules' thigh, his back facing the teenager's stomach.

"Yeah, sounds it. How come you've got Irish in you?"

"Well, I think, way back somewhere, there are some Irish immigrants on my dad's side. Not much."

Lafayette nodded in understanding and closed his eyes again, sinking into the warmth of his friend and yawning. A few minutes later, when the episode ended, Hercules was about to ask Lafayette if he wanted to watch something else. Then, he caught a faint snore from the French teenager. Maybe they'd stay just like this for a little while. Hercules would like that.

* * *

John arrived at the hospital to visit Alex just as Eliza was leaving. They actually bumped into each other in the entrance hall, Eliza in her usual, understated yet fashionable garb and John in jeans and his leather jacket.

Eliza rushed towards him and pulled him into a tight hug, her head warm against his shoulder, her hair smelling like strawberries.

"John! It's so good to see you!"

"Same here, how's Alex?"

Eliza stepped back, pushed some hair behind her ear and shrugged.

"I mean, he seems fine. Considering... The circumstances."

John dug his hands into his pockets and rocked backwards and forwards on the balls of his feet awkwardly.

"Yeah, I get you. Okay."

"Listen, John, if I'd known about... About why he was here, I wouldn't have been so... Nosy."

John shook his head, a small smile ghosting across his face.

"It's alright. You just wanted to know what had happened. I would too."

Eliza shrugged, gave a quick, gentle grin and they hugged a final time before parting ways.

Alex was lain across his bed reading when John walked in. He looked up, put aside his book and twisted to face John with a grin on his face.

"Hey."

John grinned, flopped onto the bed beside Alex and laid his head across his lap. Alex jumped momentarily, a little confused, before laughing and reaching down to push some hair from John's face.

"Consider my personal space well and truly encroached."

John laughed, looking up at Alex with his bright, amber eyes.

"You love it."

They lay there for a while, talking. John had read the book Lafayette had borrowed for him and found great pleasure in teasing Alex with false, specious spoilers just to frighten him. Alexander didn't have much happening that day. He was going to see Warren, a psychiatrist, later and maybe check in with the head doctor in the ward about how he was doing physically.

Eventually, the subject came around to John's current living situation with Hercules.

"How long has it been now?"

Alex had long since slumped from his previous, upright position against the wall and was now lying across John's legs, his feet hanging off the edge of the bed.

"Nearly two weeks."

Alexander's eyebrows creased and he played absently with the end of John's t-shirt. It was a black one, brought out all the different golden shades in his skin.

"Are you gonna go back to your dad's?"

"I... I don't know. I'll be sixteen soon, then I can get a job, be more independent."

Alex sat up, leant on his hands and frowned.

"Wait. When do you turn sixteen?"

"October twenty-eighth."

Alex froze. His hand paused where it had been about to push back some hair.

"So, in like under two weeks?"

John nodded slowly, his eyes lowered to his lap. For whatever reason, the subject of birthdays had never come up between them.

"John, I might still be here then, I can't get you anything, I might not be able to go out with you guys, I-"

The taller boy smiled slightly, rested a hand on Alex's shoulder to cease his rant and shrugged, leaning closer Alexander and stroking his head reassuringly.

"Look, I don't care whether you get me anything. As long as I see you."

Alex groaned, held his face in his hands and shook his head.

"It's your sixteenth, it's a big deal. If I'm still shut up in here..."

John dislodged his legs from beneath Alex's torso and crawled closer to the teenager, kneeling beside where he was sprawled out, his face in his hands.

"Hey, you might not even be here by then, maybe you'll have been discharged."

Alexander nodded, sighed and sucked in a long, steadying breath.

"Yeah, I guess."

"When's your birthday?"

"January eleventh. Still a few months away."

John nodded and then, leant in towards Alex's mouth, lips slightly parted, eyes fluttering shut. Alexander reciprocated instantly and pressed his lips to John's almost feverishly, his hand reaching around to cup his jaw.

"Look, don't stress over it. As long as I see you, I'll have an amazing birthday."

* * *

When John left the hospital later that evening, he felt as though he was burning. Burning like the wick of a candle, or a supernova. A cloud of heat seemed to surround him all the way to the bus stop, he barely even felt the cold against his exposed hands, didn't notice the darkness of streets he walked along.

Seeing Alexander always did this to him, it always made him absolutely humming with energy. He didn't know if it did the same thing to the other teenager, but sometimes he thought he sensed it. A crackle of electricity between their lips when they kissed. The heat that sometimes scorched in their glances.

He got the bus back to Hercules place, not even tired from his long back and forth across town that day. The music his earphones throbbed and pulsed in his ears, turned up, he was sure, far too loudly. He took the spare key from under the flowerpot on the veranda and opened up, calling out his greetings into Hercules' house.

"Hey! I'm back!"

There was movement in the sitting room and John heard the TV pause, Hercules' voice yelled in response a moment later.

"Hey! How's Alex?"

John made his way into the sitting room and flopped down beside his friend, putting his legs up on the poufef and stretching, rather like a cat, well-fed and contented.

"He seems good, starting to look better. Healthier, I mean."

Hercules nodded and un-paused the game he'd been playing on the PlayStation. John picked up a controller and went to the menu to select his own character.

"How's Laf? Any romantic times?"

He wiggled his eyebrows, grinning and Hercules groaned loudly, shaking his head with a broad grin on his face. Suddenly, though, the smile seemed to falter and his dark eyebrows knit tightly together.

"Actually, I'm sort of worried about him."

John leant forward on the couch and logged into his own account on the game.

"How do you mean?"

"Just... One minute he's himself, laughing and happy, the next I'm worried he's about to cry. He's taking all this pretty hard."

John bit his lip and dragged it thoughtfully between his teeth for a moment. He shook some errant curls absently from his face, both hands busy on the controller and sighed.

"He found Alex that morning... I can't imagine it."

He put down his controller suddenly and Hercules though he probably _was_ imagining it, just like he'd done earlier. He nodded in sympathy and paused the game, twisting to face his friend.

"I think he needs to see Alex out of the hospital, going out, writing, being himself. When he does soon, I think that will help reassure him."

John murmured his agreement and then, just as he was about to un-pause the game, the doorbell rang.

Hercules sighed and stood up, dropping his controller and holding out an apologetic hand to John. John heard him move through the hallway and a second later, heard the door open. He closed his eyes and laid back across the couch, waiting for Hercules to return.

"Hey, John!"

He opened his eyes and sat up, sighing heavily.

"Yeah?"

"It's... It's your dad."

John was on his feet in an instant, his heart pounding, his hands trembling unwarranted. Why was his dad here? Why _the fuck_ was his dad here? He stuffed his hands in his pockets, took a heavy, deep breath and walked stiffly out into the corridor.

Henry Laurens stood in the doorway of Hercules' house, such a sight John had never thought, even dreamed, he would see. He was wearing a hastily pulled on peacoat and his eyes were livid, red-rimmed. Had he been drinking? _Fuck_ , had he been drinking?

"John."

"Dad? Wha- What are you doing here?"

The man didn't respond to his question, just turned to Hercules, "can we have a moment alone, please?"

Hercules shot John a frantic, torn look, his eyes jumped from his best friend to John's father, terrified and unsure. He knew what the man was like, that he'd slapped his son. He didn't know what to do.

John nodded his head ever so slightly and Hercules gulped. Then, he turned from the room.

John turned back to his dad, but before he could speak, the man had marched over to him and grabbed his arm forcefully, his fingers almost bruisingly tight around the skin.

"Wha-"

"John, I have put up with this ridiculous behaviour for far too long. You're coming home now, tonight."

John tugged his arm free, shook his head wildly and glared at the man, his eyes hard. His heart was hammering, he was in complete shock. What the hell was going on? Why now? This was so sudden, why now was his father here?

"Why would I go with you? You hit me! You don't even want me!"

Henry Laurens shook his head, his fists were clearly clenched in his pockets and his eyebrows were knitted close together furiously.

"You are my son, John!" He spat, his eyes blazing furiously," You have a duty to your younger siblings, you have a duty to me. I've indulged this _absurdity_ for long enough!"

John took another step backwards from the door and folded his arms around himself, shaking his head. He thought he might now know why his dad had made this strange, sudden appearance; he'd been drinking. He did that often, on a larger scale than John would have liked. It had started after his parents' divorce when he was thirteen or so, but had gotten worse in the last two years. John often had to wake up early in the mornings to clean beer cans from the sitting room and he'd had more than one alcohol-fuelled confrontation with the man.

"No. I'm happy here, I'm _safe_ here. I'm nearly sixteen anyway, you can't order me around anymore."

His father's jaw tightened and he shook his head, reached forward to take John's arm for a second time.

"John, I will not have you staying here, going around with that boy the Washingtons foster, skipping school! You are coming home!"

John groaned, held his face in his hands and closed his eyes. How did his dad know he'd been missing school? He didn't know about Alex, that was certain, he must have assumed John was just acting out, being rebellious. That he was skiving class to meet up with boys.

"You don't get it! That's not- How did you know I was here?"

The man's fingers tightened around his arms and John winced slightly, trying to pull away, His dad seemed to notice the movement and tightened his grip even further, his chest heaving with rage. John wondered how much he'd drank. He was talking normally, he wasn't stumbling and he didn't smell like beer, but his mood seemed slightly erratic and unstable, and he was _angry_. Altogether, these weren't good signs.

"Henry told me, besides-" he was cut off from continuing by John, who'd just cursed under his breath. Henry had fucking told their dad? It couldn't have been on purpose, could it?

"John, Martha, James and Mary ask about you every day! You haven't seen them in weeks."

John winced in shame at this truth. If there was one place his father knew he could hit a nerve, it was the subject of his siblings. John adored his sisters and brothers, even if they got on his nerves often. Mary was the youngest, only five. She'd be missing him, he knew that. He helped her with homework and played with her every night, now he was gone, who did that?

"Are they... Are they okay?"

His father sighed, his face softened, "they miss you, John."

John held his face in his hands and took several long, deep breaths. He missed his siblings so much. So goddamn much it hurt. Could he reconcile in staying with Hercules, abandoning them? Could he reconcile going back there, to a father that was unable to accept him for who he was?

"Dad, I just... You don't understand me, you don't accept me! How can you expect me to be okay being told I'm going to hell every day, by my own father!"

His father scowled angrily. Suddenly, the softness that had been present on his face when he'd talked about the younger children dissipated.

"John, you are still a child, you're still my son. If I tell you to come home, you'll do it!"

John scoffed, he dug his hands further into his pockets and squeezed his nails sharply into the skin of his palms.

"I'm not your child and anyway, if I do come home, it won't be because you fucking told me to."

The bitterness in his words shocked them both and despite John's rage, he was mentally kicking himself for letting those words slip out. His dad hated him speaking like that.

"John, I didn't think I'd need to remind you again," his voice rose, furious, "not to speak to me in that way!"

"Oh, yeah, because it's so much better than how you talk to me isn't it?"

His dad looked, at that moment, as though he'd like to unleash the full potential of his anger at John. His eyes were livid, much lighter than John's own and a murky, foreboding colour. His chest heaved and his fists were clenched. Evidently, though, he seemed to realise that he couldn't do this in the hallway of another person's home. He closed his eyes, taking one long, steadying breath.

"John, I want you to pack your things and get in the car. I'm done with allowing you to disobey me like this."

John's mouth opened in protest, he was about to spit out a cutting, sarcastic retort when his father's grip on his arm tightened and he was met with such a furious, warning glare that the words died on his tongue. He closed his mouth, took a step backwards and fled into the living room, holding back the tears that pricked behind his eyelids.

Hercules sat on the couch, his hands clasped together on his lap, his face grey with worry.

"John, I heard yelling, what's going on?"

John moved to the sofa and started grabbing things up off it, his hoodie, some clothes, his charger.

"I'm going home."

Hercules gaped at him, his eyes huge, dumbfounded; he stood up instantly.

"John, are you sure that's the best idea?"

John grit his teeth, closed his eyes to stop the tears spilling over his lashes and shook his head.

"No." His voice broke as he said it yet he continued to shove items into his backpack, looking around frantically for anything he'd missed.

"John, you... You can still stay here! You're welcome here!"

John shook his head, his eyes still closed, his chest heaving.

"I can't, Herc. Look, you're my best friend, but I seriously... I've got siblings to look out for, I can't keep leeching off of you."

Hercules opened his mouth to retort but John shut him down, shook his head and hoisted his backpack tighter around his shoulders. His best friend stared at him hopelessly, his face a mask of shock and fear. What had just happened hadn't yet settled into either of their consciousnesses thus far.

"John, I... Please, If he does anything, promise you'll leave."

"Herc, we don't get along, but he won't hurt me. What happened was a once off."

Hercules looked desperate, his tall frame and broad chest suddenly seemed so much smaller, he looked a lot younger when he was this anxious for his friend. John was reminded then that they were barely sixteen, still, as his dad had said, kids.

"I'll see you as soon as I can, okay."

He pulled his friend into a tight, one armed hug and breathed in the smell of the house he'd come to call home over the last fortnight. A smell he could associate with safety, friends, good food, laughter. Disco music keeping him up at night, barbecues on the front lawn, pink kneed kids playing ball on the street. He'd miss this place, it was what he thought a home ought to feel like.

"Take care of yourself, please, John."

Hercules' voice wavered marginally, he was so clearly scared for his friend. It, by extension, stressed out John. Hercules was supposed to be their rock, and now they were both losing their footing. It was disconcerting, to say the least.

John shouldered his bag and stepped out into the hallway, a grim expression of determination on his face. He wasn't doing this for himself, he wasn't doing this for his dad. He was doing this for Mary, Martha and James. He was doing this to stop living off The Mulligans.

He wasn't doing this because he was scared of his dad. He wasn't doing this because he was scared of his dad, he wasn't doing this because he was scared of his dad. He wasn't doing this because he was scared of his dad.

If he said it enough times over, he realised, he could almost make himself believe it.


	38. Pace - prequel

**Hello. I'm not dead. I understand that loads of you are probably pretty pissed at me, and I get that, but I haven't been doing nothing, I've written over 190,000 words of content to give you in due course. This fanfiction is very much ongoing, and the next chapter should be out soon. It's nearly done!**

 **Thanks for all the reviews, seriously.**

 **Trigger warnings: Mildly dubious consent, non-explicit sexual themes, homophobia, conversion therapy, abuse, death of parent/s, bullying.**

The store is cool, a fan whirs noisily on the counter, little streamers tied to its grate flutter in a strong, flickering breeze. The man behind the counter is reading a newspaper, he barely looks up as Alex enters. Like many people in the area, he's Latino, with dark hair, a large, muscular frame and olive skin. He's probably in his late thirties, with a wide nose, strong jaw and tight curls. A chubby toddler sits on his knee, maybe one and a half years old. He plays with a toy that every minute or so begins a mechanical, chiming little tune and lights up.

A poster of some soccer players wearing Nicaraguan colours hangs behind him as well as a rosary and a picture of The Virgin Mary. It reminds him a little of home on Nevis. The nearby church his mother would avoid unless quiet, the stacks of flowers that had surrounded Mary's statue after the hurricane.

He shudders as he steps into the path of the fan, pulls his jacket a little tighter around himself and keeps his head down as he steps lightly, quietly towards the back of the store. His hood is up, as usual, as Pace has left dark bruises around his left eye and jaw. He knows it's unlikely anyone would say anything if they did see them, but he's had the odd religious pamphleteer approach him to ask if he's okay. It's never welcome, he always pulls up his hood and darts quickly off.

He scans the shelves with a practised, starving eye, looking for something substantial he can eat and fit comfortably in his pockets too. A sandwich would satiate his hunger for the rest of the day, but they're too big. A granola bar is the perfect size, but that won't be enough. He's _starving_.

His eyes fall on a bagel, it's contained in a little plastic packet, flat enough to be hidden under his jumper yet substantial enough to keep him from passing out today. He glances at the man behind the counter. He's bouncing the little boy on his knee absently, still absorbed in the newspaper.

Alex grabs the bagel and shoves it beneath his jacket in one quick, fluid motion. He doesn't have the courage to look back up at the man, just begins the slow walk back up the aisle, holding his breath.

He can see the sidewalk, bright white in the shining sun, speckled with decade-old gum and just-smoked cigarette butts. He's about a yard from the door when the man's voice rings out sharply from behind him.

"Hey, kid!"

He spins around, shoves his hands in his pockets, keeps his head down.

"What?"

He hears the child gurgle and the sound of a newspaper shuffling. He doesn't chance a look up at the counter, just takes tiny steps backwards, away from the door.

"Not buying anything?"

Alex starts, wills himself not to flinch away. The man's got an accent, though it's not as heavy as some of the ones he hears around here. This man must have lived here for some time, decades even, but he's learned to pick up even the slightest indicators that someone is like him. Maybe if he speaks Spanish now the man will have a little more sympathy for him, he knows he always feels a certain kinship with people who speak his mother-tongue.

He pivots on his heel, takes a barely audible breath and shrugs.

"No, dejé mi dinero en casa. Lo siento."

 _No, left my money at home. Sorry._

If the man is surprised, his voice doesn't show it when he next speaks.

"¿Lo qué hay debajo?"

 _What's under there?_

He's stood up now, evidently, his voice has moved from behind the counter to about a yard in front of him and his presence is all too clearly felt by Alex, looming, dangerous.

He makes a run for it. Quick as a flash, he whips around towards the door and starts to sprint, thinking about what coach says at school.

 _Breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth, Alex, keep your elbows tucked in, don't slouch._

He makes it about three yards out onto the street when a hand closes around his bicep and jerks him back. He cries out in pain as fresh bruises are pressed down upon and slows, panting. He's off his game, slower than he should be from hunger.

No one on the street spares more than a glance. He's a teenager in a hoodie with a mysterious bulge under his jacket, held tight by a shopkeeper after having just bolted. It looks... Well, it looks exactly how it is.

He's pulled back inside the shop. Not roughly, though. It only hurts because of his bruises. If his arm wasn't injured, Alex knows he'd not be in pain at all.

"Voy a preguntar a nuevo ¿Lo qué hay debajo?"

 _I'll ask again, what's under there?_

Alex turns around to face him, unzips his jacket and shoves the bagel at the man, willing himself not to cry. That bagel was the first food he'd touched in days. He'd been so close to getting away, so irritatingly close.

He's so hungry. He's so, so hungry.

The man takes the food with a grunt and Alex shuffles on the spot slightly, his stomach seizes up with anxiousness or hunger, he's not certain.

"Quitate la capucha, chaval."

 _Take down the hood, kid._

The word takes him by surprise slightly. _Chaval_. It's slang really, means 'kid'. It's almost friendly, though, like how the British say 'mate'.

He doesn't want to take down his hood, but his dichotomy here is between obeying this man and him calling the cops. It's not a nice choice, and one could quickly turn into the other, but he'll go with the safest option for now.

He pulls down his hood and glances up at the man, his chest heaves in panic but his eyes are hard and defensive, giving away nothing. The man stares at him for a few moments, taking in his bruised, hollow-cheeked face with a thoughtful, creased-brow expression. He moves his hand silently from Alex's bicep to his wrist and wraps his fingers around it. Even through a layer of jacket, they touch easily.

The man sighs, he presses the food back into Alex's hand. The teenager looks up at him, open-mouthed, wide-eyed.

"¿Qué?"

 _What?_

"Vuelver si tienes hambre. Parece que necesistas algo de comida."

 _Come back if you're hungry. You look like you need some food._

He doesn't hesitate, he rips the plastic wrapper off, chances a final look at the man and eats the whole thing in about a minute. He knows it's a little gross, bolting his food like that, but what's grosser is the fact that his nails have gone blue from malnutrition.

"Tienes ganas de vomitar, chaval ¿Os padres se olvidan de alimentarte o algo así?"

 _You'll be sick, kid. Parents forget to feed you or something?_

Alex still has his mouth full with the last bite of bagel but he swallows quickly and shrugs, not looking up at the man. He's right, there's a fair chance he'll get sick, but there was also a fair chance he'd have collapsed if he hadn't eaten something. Honestly, if this man hadn't given him the food back, he wouldn't have been above begging. Or stealing from somewhere else.

"Gracias."

The man surveys him for a moment as he takes tiny kitten steps backwards towards the door.

"¿De dónde eres?"

 _Where are you from?_

Alex flicks his head in a sideways direction, towards the apartment block at the end of the street.

"El piso en la esquina"

 _The apartment on the corner._

"¿No, de dónde eres?"

 _No, where are you from?_

Alex nods in understanding and shrugs. He feels the back of his ankle heat up as he steps slowly out into the sunlit street. Any second now he can make a dash for it, get away. Because this man seems nice, but so did Mr. Elliot, so did the Harveys.

"Caribbean."

He says, and then runs.

He doesn't look back once, just weaves quickly through the crowds of people, clutching his jacket around himself tightly, his eyes set on the turn off up ahead.

* * *

He doesn't want to go back to that little bodega. He doesn't want people's pity, he doesn't trust people's pity. He'd thought Mr. Elliot had been kind, had thought there'd be no strings attached to the food or the clothes or the shelter. He knows better now, he doesn't want to make the same mistake twice.

But he's so, so hungry.

He doesn't think he's eaten in days. Pace has been in a particularly foul mood lately, he threatened to throw Alexander down the fire escape stairwell last night, had grabbed his hair, forced him towards the balcony. Alex had nearly thought he'd actually do it, he probably would have if it wouldn't certainly kill Alex, if it wouldn't alert the neighbours. It was an empty, nevertheless terrifying threat. Pace is full of those.

So he's not feeling great this week. It's a Friday afternoon, he's not eaten at all today and every time he stood up from his desk in class, his vision swam. That man had told him to come back if he was hungry, he had seemed sympathetic, but Alex doesn't want to become reliant on anybody's kindness. It's usually the first thing that goes when people get what they want out of you.

But, maybe just this once. Maybe... Maybe the danger of him not eating outweighs that of the man himself? If he thinks about it, the statistical probability of meeting people that might take advantage of him lowers every time he does meet that sort of person, doesn't it? So because he's had that experience with Mr. Elliot, the odds of him meeting someone _else_ like that have lowered, right?

Fuck, he's not very good at math.

So he walks into the bodega.

The bell tinkles and the man looks up from behind the counter. His kid sits up on the counter, chubby legs kicking playfully as he dangles a teddy bear by its ears, making laughing, gurgling sounds as he swings it in circles.

The man obviously recognises Alex, because he quickly stands up, setting down the newspaper.

"Hungry?"

Alex nods jerkily, once and the man walks down the main aisle towards the large open fridge at the back of the shop, where the sandwiches are kept fresh.

"Ham okay?"

Alex takes a deep breath.

"Sí."

He wouldn't complain even if it were pickle or something equally detestable. Maybe even the school meatloaf. The man passes him a sandwich, it's in one of those triangular cardboard box things and amazingly, still three days within its best by date.

"I- I... Thanks."

The man says nothing, merely smiles and walks around the back of the counter to sit back down.

"They don't feed you at home?"

Alex shrugs, focuses his attention on opening the sandwich and taking a large bite. He tries not to focus on the pain in his jaw as he chews; bruises, again.

"Who gave you those bruises?"

Alex swallows, shrugs and goes back to his sandwich.

"What's your name, at least?"

This is starting to feel like an interrogation.

"Alejandro."

He likes his name best in Spanish, it's what his mom would call him. Feels more like what it was meant to be. Feels safe, feels like home. He introduces himself as that only to fellow Spanish natives though, otherwise all the white people would butcher it.

 _Alex-ando? Ale-hen-dro? Ale-jan-tho? Can I call you Alex instead?_ God, he can picture it so clearly. Probably because it's happened before.

There's also the small matter of not wanting to reveal his 'real' name to this man. Alexander is just the English version of the name, but if he can lead this man to believe everyone calls him 'Alejandro', he'll have more trouble identifying him.

Well, I'm Marco," he gestures at the little boy, "this little guy's Santi, short for Santiago."

Alex nods, finishes the first half of the sandwich. It's fine, tastes like any ham sandwich might. To Alex though, it might as well be a meal from a Michelin star restaurant. He's so hungry, he'd probably rate the school canteen enchiladas (they're absolute shit, taste like scraps his mom would feed to the birds) five stars at the moment.

"When d'you last eat?"

Alex wipes some crumbs off his shirt and begins to absently tear up the cardboard, feeling the food settle comfortingly in his stomach. He can hear his cells thanking him, for eating something at last. As though he's had a choice.

"Few days."

"¿Tienes sed?"

 _Thirsty?_

Alex looks up in surprise, almost doesn't believe his luck. This man's fed him, now he wants to give him something to drink too? It makes him wary, gives him goosebumps.

"Uh... No sé."

 _Uhh, I don't know._

The man shrugs nonchalantly, takes some juice from the fridge and hands it to him. He accepts it with a trembling hand, a little scared of his casual kindness. The man obviously detects his fear and smiles slightly, sitting back down on the seat behind the counter. Alex leans back against a stack of orange juice cartons and takes a sip of the drink. His mouth is dry from the sandwich and over all the hunger, he hasn't properly realised how thirsty he is.

He drinks it all in about two minutes, swallowing until his throat hurts. He can feel his stomach gurgle contentedly, _so you're finally taking care of me now?_

He catches his breath then, just for a minute or two. He hadn't realised how tired he was, maybe it's the food. He wants to go to bed, he won't have to get up early tomorrow morning. It's a Friday, no school tomorrow.

"Where are you sleeping tonight?"

Alex plays with the plastic label on the bottle, tearing it off and into small segments. He bristles slightly, tearing the plastic in a motion perhaps a little too rough, given the fact that the man is only being kind. Well, he's at least putting forward the appearance of kindness.

"No soy un indigente."

 _I'm not homeless._

"¿Cuantos años tienes?"

Alex licks remenants of sandwich out of his teeth, God, he's still hungry?

"Quince."

The man nods, looks him up and down. Alex bridles slightly, shies away. The man doesn't seem to notice.

"Okay ¿Tienes padres?"

 _Okay. Do you have parents?_

"Tenía padres. Soy en acogida."

 _I had parents. I'm in foster care._

The man, Marco, Alex should call him by his name, really, suddenly looks slightly awkward and lifts his kid off the countertop, rocking him gently. Alex wonders if his dad did that sort of thing when he was young, he can't remember having much contact with him. There is one memory of him though, clear in the haze of all the other nebulous recollections of his early childhood.

It's of him, his brother and his dad, playing volleyball on the beach. He thinks he was about three or four, because he remembers his dad lifting him onto his shoulders easily, he remembers having chubby, weak little fists that couldn't hit or throw a ball properly.

Still, he sees his father's smile, one of the few memories of it. Sees James laughing, with sand in his hair. Hears the smack of skin hitting rubber ball. _Tu turno! Dos puntos! Invalido!_

He dumps the bottle in the bin beside the door and shoves his hands deep in his pockets, not looking up at the man. He doesn't understand why this man is being so kind to him, unless it's for some more disingenuous reason that Alex has yet to discover.

"¿Porqué haces esto?"

 _Why are you doing this?_

The man sets the baby down on the counter and leans against the candy shelf, watching him with a slight frown, almost as though he doesn't know himself, or at least has to think hard about how to articulate his answer.

"Tengo un hija como de tu edad. You're just a kid."

 _I have a daughter about your age._

Alex bristles slightly at the latter part of this man's sentence. He's hardly a child, at fifteen, he's seen more of this world than most adults can lay claim to. But the first bit, about him having a daughter about Alex's age, he thinks he gets that. He wonders whether his dad, wherever he is (or isn't, Alex isn't going to fool himself with the notion that his dad is _definitely_ alive), feels a certain attachment to kids Alex's age. Probably not. He didn't feel any sort of attachment to them.

He watches the man for a moment, looks down at his bitten, cracked nails and nods slightly, just once. The man smiles at him, and somehow, it's not malicious. It's not sympathetic, nor is it sarcastic, or saccharine. It's just warm, and miraculously, he finds himself returning it. Even if his little twitch of the lips is more reminiscent of a Mona Lisa smile than anything else.

* * *

Alex doesn't have anywhere else to go.

His entire body aches, he's covered in bruises, his bicep burns like it's still on fire, still held to scorching metal.

Pace had let him lie there on the floor after it'd happened, gasping, whimpering in pain for a few minutes before he'd dragged himself away across the floorboards to his room. He'd taken off his shirt to reveal a hissing, long, red burn stretching across his arm.

The skin almost looks like it's melted, or cooked, or whatever the fuck happens to skin when it's been burned that badly. He doesn't know exactly how severe it is, whether it's a first, second or third degree. He can feel it, God can he feel it, so the nerves are okay. But it's not white like a simple oven burn, it's an angry red and already starting to blister.

He'd held a cold, wet t-shirt to it, Pace had been in the kitchen where the ice was, but it was still burning, burning, burning. He had to bite down hard on his fist when he'd put his t-shirt back on, it'd hurt so much. He'd had to leave that place.

Pace doesn't ask him where he's going. He knows Alex isn't going to tell anyone, he never will. Pace has made sure to impress that on him. He stumbles down the staircase of the apartment and across the street. The bodega's in view, just opened, its little neon sign like a beacon for him to follow.

He doesn't have anywhere else to go.

Marco sits behind the counter reading his newspaper as usual, Santi biting at a toy with a gummy, near-toothless mouth and slobbery little fingers. Alex doesn't much like babies.

Marco looks up at him as he enters. Alexander isn't wearing his hoodie today, he couldn't get it on, thought covering the burn with any more than a thin layer of cotton t-shirt would be detrimental to the injury. Besides, if he's pulling on a hoodie, he can't cover his mouth, then he'd scream. It would hurt too much.

"Hey, do you need something to eat?"

He does, but that's not why he came here. He needs bandages, or ice, or antiseptic, or all three.

"I- I... Not exactly. I hurt myself."

He steps out from the shadow that the poster on the glass has cast over him and looks at the floor, unable to make eye contact with the man he's come begging for help to. Marco stands up and Alex flinches slightly. The man walks to the door, flips the open sign so it faces them and looks him up and down anxiously.

"What happened? Are you okay?"

Alex rolls up the sleeve of his shirt, his eyes tightly shut, holding his breath, letting the man see his arm in all its mangled, crimson glory.

He hears a sharp intake of breath and a soft _mierda_ , before he opens his eyes and shrugs at the man, an apologetic expression colouring his features.

"Who did this?"

Alex scoffs, as though the idea's absurd to him, as though his foster father didn't pin him down and hold a burning frying pan to his arm minutes earlier.

"Hot water pipe. They're exposed in the boiler room of the complex, I fell against one."

He thinks this is believable. Gentrification is slowly sucking up their area, trying to turn Brownsville into a middle-class paradise, yet this neighbourhood is still poor, it's not so hard to believe that a landlord would save some money, cut some corners and not cover a hot water pipe.

Marco watches him for a moment, his arms come to fold over his chest and his eyes narrow.

"So what about the person who gives you all those bruises? You sure it wasn't them?"

Alex smarts, tries to fold his own arms but discovers quickly that the movement hurts.

"Of course I'm fucking sure. If you don't wanna help, I'm leaving."

He pivots on his heel and grabs the door handle, making to pull it open before Marco steps forward to touch his shoulder. He refrains from flinching and looks up at him with dark, darting eyes and a defiant expression. He wants help, but he's far too proud to beg for it. He'll leave if Marco doesn't press him to stay.

"Look, I've got stuff for that. I won't ask how it happened, okay."

"You know how it happened, I told you."

Marco shrugs and starts rummaging around in the space beneath the counter, where Alex supposes he must have a first aid box or something. Again, he marvels at the kindness of this man. It still makes him wary, but even if he has some ulterior motive, he hasn't made it know yet.

Besides, what's better, a foster father who makes no show of liking you but beats you just the same, or a shopkeeper you don't really know, who seems to want to help you?

Marco takes out a first aid box and opens it, rummaging around for, well, whatever you need to treat a burn. Alex hopes he has more knowledge of treating burns than he does. He only knows to cool them.

"What do I do to it? Do I bandage it or..."

Marco, as an answer, sets some bandages out on the counter, along with one of those cold pack things you bang a few times to get working and some antiseptic wipes. Alex winces at the thought, he knows that'll sting badly.

"I... Are those necessary, I mean..."

"They'll sting, but yeah, they're necessary."

Alex bites his lip, says nothing. That'll hurt like a bitch, but he'll do it anyway, there's not much point in resisting something that's only going to help him. Marco hands him the compress and he bangs it vigorously against the counter top to break the gel pack. He holds it to his arm, screws up his face as the initial stinging kicks in, then relaxes as the injury starts to go numb.

He sits there for a while, on the pallet of cereal and juice boxes. Marco turns the sign back to open and customers trickle in, few sparing Alex a glance. He, to the tired, uninterested eye, might be Marco's son. They share dark hair and skin, it's an easy thing to assume.

Alex takes the ice pack off about fifteen minutes later and reaches for the antiseptic wipes. The store's empty at the moment, the last customer to come in had asked for a pack Silk cut blues, then left thirty seconds later. Alex takes out one of the wipes, steals himself, then presses it to the burn. It takes a second for the chemical to seep in, but when it does, it burns. God, it's like the frying pan's being held to it all over again. He lets out a small yell and pulls his hand away instantly, the antiseptic still stings and he squeezes his eyes tightly shut.

"Just wipe it once or twice, get it over with."

Marco stands anxiously behind the counter, watching Alexander with stern concern in his face. He must still doubt Alex's recounting of events. He nods, takes a deep breath and wipes along the burn, pressing down marginally and gritting his teeth with the pain of it all. He closes his eyes, repeats this and finally, wrenches his hand away from the injury. Marco grabs a bottle of water from the fridge, dampens the bandages and hands them to Alex, who begins to wrap his arm.

He can only feel lucky now, a huge sense of relief and gratitude washes over him and he takes a long, deep breath. He was so, so lucky to have this place to come to. He can't imagine what might have happened to his arm if he couldn't treat it, put some antiseptic on the injury. A brief scenario flashes through his mind, of an infected burn, red and itchy, spreading throughout his body. Fever like sickness, the type that killed his mother.

He doesn't dwell on these thoughts, just closes his eyes and leans back against the wall. He then remembers why all this had happened in the first place. He'd been hungry, so, so hungry and thought, in his starving delirium, it would be a good idea to try and take some of the granola bars stashed under the sink. He's an idiot. You never steal granola bars! Too loud to eat and full of empty calories; every abused kid knows this.

That hunger, which has been over-shadowed this past half hour with pain, comes back in full force and he winces as a cramp throbs painfully in his stomach. He presses a hand to it, which is futile, that won't do anything to make the pain cease, and sighs.

"Are you hungry?"

Alex opens his eyes, watches Marco warily for a moment and then nods. The man holds up a hand, as if to say 'one second' and walks through a small door behind the counter. He comes back a moment later with something in tupperware, must be something he's made himself. Leftovers?

"Gallo pinto, if you want some. It'll be better than what's in that fridge."

Alex takes the food, opens the box and stares down into it for a moment. He doesn't remember his mom ever making gallo pinto, it's a Nicaraguan dish anyway, but fundamentally, loads of Latin cooking is similar. Gallo pinto isn't so different from arroz mamposteao. His mom made that all the time.

He's about to take a forkful, it smells so good, just like their old kitchen in the evenings before dinner, when something in his brain tells him to stop. Why is he accepting homemade food off a perfect stranger? The sandwiches and drinks were all prepacked, this is different, this is _dangerous_.

He pauses, puts down the fork and shakes his head, his stomach screaming its disapproval. He really, really wants to eat, but he doesn't trust this man enough to just take food off him, food that could have anything in it.

He gives the food back to Marco, shrugs and sits back against the wall.

"Soy alérgico a cilantro. Lo siento, mi madre siempre lo hizo sin cilantro."

 _I'm allergic to cilantro. Sorry, my mom always made it without it._

Marco nods in understanding, takes back the food and goes to the fridge. He's none-the-wiser to Alex's true aversion to the food.

"Entonces, esto no es tan bueno, pero, deberías poder tragarlo sin vomitar, son soportables."

 _Well, this stuff's not as good, but you should be able to choke it down. It's bearable._

Alex smiles slightly, the anxious, hissing creature inside him placated. He's going to eat something, something safe and out of a packet. His arm will be okay, he won't be hungry for the rest of the day.

* * *

Alex is in the bodega again that Wednesday, eating a sandwich Marco's given him and checking over some science homework. It's quiet this evening, the fan spins sluggishly and the weather's getting warmer. It's past sunset, so the people coming in now are all dressed for nights out, asking for various beers or liquors, or else cigarettes. Santi has been put to bed and the store is quiet, Marco's fiddling with a chunky old CD player, trying to get music playing.

Alex reexamines his answer on stem cells and scratches out a few sentences he thinks are incorrect. He doesn't even look up when he hears the door open, just hears some footsteps shuffle in and a voice he recognises ask for a pack of Marlboro Mediums. Alex's head snaps up to see Pace at the counter, digging in his pocket for his wallet. He hasn't seen him, Alex is frozen.

Pace takes the pack Marco hands him and turns to leave. His profile comes into view and Alex holds his breath. His foster father's head turns about half an inch and his eyes fall on the teenager.

"Alexander?"

He says nothing, squeezes his fists hard, eyes darting to the door.

"What are you doing here?"

Alex says nothing, looks pleadingly at Marco for some help. He looks bewildered, he's not going to take the hint. Alex is fucked.

"Get up. You're leaving with me, now!"

Alex scrambles for his things, pushes hair from his face and shoulders his backpack. Marco's eyes follow him as he leaves, he looks scared. Alex shakes his head and hurries after Pace, the door swings shut behind him.

The apartment is eerily quiet and dark when Pace opens the door and shoves him into the sitting room. His push is so hard, Alex trips over the corner of the rug and goes sprawling, his chin lands on the hard toe of one of Pace's boots and his head snaps forward painfully, like a car when the breaks are slammed unexpectedly. His hands are clammy, sweat seeps out of his pores like fear, which oozes dark and thick through the cracks in the walls of the room around him. He's in for it, he knows he's in for it. This is going to hurt, he's not going to be able to move properly for days.

"What the fuck was that, what the _fuck_ was that?"

"I heard you the first time," Alex groans, rolling onto his back and pressing a hand to chin, it throbs dully, hot and aching. That'll bruise nastily.

He only talks back to Pace when he knows a beating's inevitable anyway. If he's going to end up battered and bruised regardless, getting in a few insults won't hurt. Well, won't hurt any more than is already guaranteed.

Pace stalks forward, crouches down beside him and seizes a fistful of his hair, jerking his head sharply up from the floor. He wishes he'd tied it up today. God, he really doesn't learn, does he?

"Are you begging now, then? You begging for food like a fucking tramp?"

Alex shakes his head, his eyes squeezed tightly shut against the pain. Pace grabs his chin, bony fingers squeezing tightly into his aching flesh.

"Look at me when I speak to you!"

Alex's eyes fly open at once and he's immediately met with the unpleasant image of his foster father, only a few inches from his face. His eyes are yellowed slightly, his face flushed with anger and his breath stinking of beer. Alex thinks he'd ask someone to shoot him if he ever became like that. Maybe he can make a deal with Rob...

"So what are you doing for all that food, huh?"

Alex says nothing, knows it's just better to let this man scream at him, just take it. Normally his rages die down quicker when Alex keeps his mouth shut.

"Are you whoring yourself out, you fucking scum?" Alex swallows thickly and Pace shakes his hand a little, still clenched in his hair. He hisses in pain, eyes watering. "Just like you did with that other one? How many have you bent over for, huh?"

Alex lets out a sob of pain, his stomach churns with guilt and disgust, his scalp burns like his hair's about to be ripped clean out.

"It's not," a sob, "it's not like that!"

Pace pulls on his hair tighter and Alex groans in pain as he feels strands of his hair split. He thinks of Mr. Elliot, of what this man's suggesting and he just wants to curl up into a ball and scream.

"Just like your fucking mother!"

Alex bares his teeth and snarls furiously, struggling against his foster father's grip, seeing red. This man doesn't insult his mother, _Mama_ , who's been the only adult in his life not to disappoint him. He'd heard what the people on the island said about her, about their family. This just rings a little too close to home.

How dare he say these things, how dare he talk about Mr. Elliot? Pace knows about that, he'd heard Knox on the phone with Alex one day, he's mentioned it almost every time he's gotten drunk and beaten him since.

"You asshole, you don't know the first thing about my mother! You don't know _anything_!"

He kicks away from the man and wipes some of the tears that have been forced from his eyes away. He flies at his foster father then, his head lands straight in his stomach and then, he's a furious torrent of sharp elbows and knuckles.

Ha! Pace has been unintentionally arming him for this by starving him, he wouldn't have such bony, sharp limbs if he'd been well-fed! Karma's a bitch.

He lands on top of the man and feels tears flowing from his eyes as he rakes his fingernails across his face. He's just thinking of his mom, of how hard she worked for them, of how she'd cried when people would say horrible things about her. How eventually, they'd stopped going to the packed, busy masses in the local church and visited in the early hours of the morning instead. Yet, he can't remember a single thing said about his dad! Not about his promiscuity at least.

His victory, however, is short-lived. Pace is so much stronger than he his, he's all fired up with alcohol-fuelled rage and Alex's attack has only made him more livid. He throws his foster son off him and Alex lands in a heap on the ground, breathing heavily, winded.

"It must be true if you're so defensive all of a sudden, I can't say I'm surprised. They say a pup follows in the bitch's footsteps."

Alex tries to stand, wild-eyed, livid, tears of fury rather than pain streaming down his face. He's knocked quickly to the floor by a punch, however. It lands directly on the highest point of his cheekbone and pain blossoms across his face like an oil spill in the ocean.

He's screaming at Pace as the man kicks him all over, it might be Spanish, English or French. Sometimes he can't tell when it gets like this. His words are punctuated with whimpers and sharp intakes of breath, occasionally the gurgle of spit or vomit sounds from his throat, but mercifully, he isn't sick.

"Connard! Connard! J-je - Ah!- te deteste! J'espère que t-tu brûles en enfer! ¡Te odio - f-fuck- gilipollas! ¡Te odio! ¡Maldita se- sea la madre que t-te que te parió!"

 _Asshole! Asshole! I hate you! I hope you burn in hell! I hate you, Asshole! I hate you! Damn the mother that gave birth to you!_

He's glad Pace doesn't understand Spanish, or French for that matter. It doesn't really make a difference though, because he's beaten black and blue anyway. He falls unconscious after a little while, it's a blessing really, until he wakes up.

He comes around a few hours later. He's still on the floor of the living room, right at the foot of the couch, lying limp and tangled on his side. Blood is sticky on his face and beneath his head, his entire body _sings_ with pain. It's alive with it, it hums through him like electricity, he's a live wire in a circuit, the voltage turned all the way up.

He lies there, not moving, for a little while, whimpering in pain. The floor is cold beneath him, but any attempts to cul up into a tighter ball and warm himself result in such a sharp stab in his ribs that he has to bite his lips nearly in half to stop himself screaming.

He reaches up and arm and begins to press gently down on each of his ribs. Miraculously, none are broken, but he thinks they're probably bruised or cracked. He moves a hand gingerly to his face then and doesn't recognise the shape beneath his fingers. It's swollen, sticky with blood, like he's been pushed defenceless into a killer bee apiary.

He collects himself for another half-hour before getting to his feet. It's dark out, the curtains have been left open and below, Brownsville is lit only by the sultry orange glow of street lights and the searching headlights of cars. It could be past two, Pace is definitely asleep.

He moves quietly to the bathroom and tends to his injuries. They're bad, real bad. His scalp stings and judging by the blood in his hair, some of it has been ripped clean out. His face is unrecognisable, his own mother probably wouldn't even know him. _Who has he become?_

He goes to sleep with a tub of ice-cream wrapped in a tea-cloth clutched to his face. Pace won't really care. He doesn't mind Alex tending to his injuries, otherwise the school might become wise to what's going on, as long as he doesn't bother Pace with any of it. All that man cares about is the beating him up bit. Alex can do what he likes in the aftermath of it all.

When he wakes up, the swelling's gone down a fair amount. Ice cream has melted and leaked all over his face and shirt, though. It's a good look, could easily be bird shit. He wasn't thinking straight last night. He might have been concussed, maybe he still is a little. In any case, he scrubs it off as best he can and rubs some more sudocream into his injuries.

The swelling's not totally gone, in fact, his face still looks puffy and bloated. He'd have been able to pass it off as an allergic reaction, if it weren't for the fact that his skin is almost entirely purple and red.

When Pace wakes up to find Alex cleaning the living room (it's a normal ritual, his foster father gets drunk and doesn't pick up the beer cans and ashtrays after him) he takes one look at the teenager and declares that he won't go to school that day.

"You'll stay here until the swelling goes down. You'll use your make-up to hide the bruises. Is that clear?"

Alex has a bottle of foundation and some concealer reserved for occasions like this. He layers it on thick when he has to, has gotten good at making it look natural, not cakey or patchy. He nods and wipes down the surface of the table. Cigarette stubs and ash scatter the coffee table, as well a collection of small, ring-shaped stains from the bottoms of beer cans.

"I'll be out all day. If you so much as poke your head out of the door, I'll make sure you're off school for longer than a few days. Am I clear, Alexander?"

"Crystal," he mutters, pocketing half a pack of un-smoked cigarettes he's certain Pace has forgotten about.

* * *

He spends the day inside, smokes those cigarettes and sleeps for as long a period of time as he can. He wishes he were at school, he's bored. He can't move very much, his body is stiff, aching and sore all over. It's easier to just lie in the warmth of his bed and sleep.

He wakes up at about three o'clock and hobbles to the kitchen for a bag of something frozen. He finds some peas, wraps them in a cloth and holds the first to his face for ten minutes, then to his ribs. He wonders if Pace would be angry if he ate something. The last thing he had was that sandwich yesterday, he hasn't eaten since. Cigarettes don't count as breakfast.

He makes himself some toast and a mug of coffee. Eats it on the couch with a handful of painkillers and sleeping pills. It won't hurt him, his intention isn't to overdose. They'll just put him out. He just hopes it'll be enough to make him a little woozy, it'd be nice to lose himself in a numb, syrupy sleep for a few hours. That'd be better than lounging here, in pain, awake, bored.

He goes to sleep again after that, on the couch. When he wakes up, which is a few hours later, judging by the darkening colour of the sky, Pace's footsteps are audible in the hallway. Alex groans in pain, his ribs are killing him, and sits up. Pace's figure darkens the doorway and he looks up at him tiredly, too exhausted to flinch or avert his gaze.

"Did you go out?"

Alex shakes his head. He doesn't really want to move his jaw and speak, that'd hurt. He's still a little drugged up, his head's slightly foggy and his limbs move like they're weighted, like he's running through water. This evidently doesn't go unnoticed by his foster father, who surveys him with a shrewd eye.

"What'd you take?"

Alex stands up unsteadily, pushes some hair from his eyes, it's come undone and messy since he fell asleep and his clothes are all wrinkled and sweaty. He wants a shower.

"Just some painkillers," he slurs.

Pace grunts, takes his cigarette out from between his lips and stubs it out on Alex's arm. He stares down at the burn on his flesh for a second, but doesn't react. His head's all fuzzy, his nerves are dull and everything seems to be reaching through layer upon layer of thick fabric. It's only a faint, muted pain.

"Fucking junkie."

Alex says nothing, just moves past Pace towards his bedroom. Pace'll start drinking now, he'll stay in the living room tonight until he stumbles to bed in the small hours or passes out there, amid his own mess of beer cans and cigarette stubs. God, Alex is going to have to make that deal with Rob.

* * *

He takes the next day off too, just for the swelling to go down properly. Three-day old bruises are always a little yellowed, the colour of that ochre moss that grows in the cracks of old walls, and dark purple, like wine. Before he lived with Pace, he used to scoff at those poets that talked about 'thundercloud bruises blooming across skin', and in a way, it's still a little too flowery for the subject matter, but now he sort of gets it. They do kind of bloom on skin, like those sped-up videos of thunderstorms rolling in across the sky.

He covers up all this with some foundation and concealer on the morning of the third day. He does it in the bathroom mirror when he wakes up, inspects it carefully afterwards. He doesn't think anyone will notice, they'd have to get pretty up close to him. He hopes Rob doesn't kiss him today, as much as he'd like that, he'd probably see the traces of make-up around his eye.

He and Rob aren't exactly together... It's complicated. They're friends, they act just like best friends, until they're alone and the tension crackles between them. Rob first kissed him a few weeks ago under the bleachers on the soccer field. They'd been revising together, Alex had been testing Rob on his French, and he'd kept mucking up his pronunciation.

 _"Uye-il? uhh-y-il?"_

 _Alex falls into a fit of laughter and shakes his head, hair bouncing around him in dark tendrils. It goes to his collarbone now, he'd gotten Rob to cut it for him a week or two ago. He flips it back, ties it up quickly and sighs, shaking his head with a broad grin._

 _Rob pouts at him in mock anger. The shadows from the bleachers cast stripes across his white t-shirt. His dark skin is clear and smooth in the sunlight, his posture lazy and his legs long as he stretches across the grass. He's only a couple inches taller than Alex but he's infinitely more graceful. Alex imagines he'd be a good dancer, when he lets his thoughts dwell on that sort of thing, though he's never seen Rob do more than sway slightly to music._

 _"It's œil, you need to say the œ like eu, kinda."_

 _Rob glances down at his book, nods and tries again. This time, the word comes out a little better, but still sounds more like an interjection of pain or surprise than the French word for eye. Rob's accent is quite noticeably New York, it's endearing. He does say 'cwaffe', instead of 'coffee', but it's not quite as pronounced as the movies might make you think. He also has a habit of saying 'aight?' which Alex has, unfortunately, picked up. He's got a New York accent of his own, but it's far less noticeable than Rob's._

 _"Better, but you need pout more, let your throat close up a bit when you say the œ part."_

 _Rob tries again, Alex shakes his head, demonstrates himself and fights back more laughter. Rob is going to love œuf, œuvre and cœur. Alex, eventually, takes pity on him. He leans forward, reaches out a hand and squeezes the flesh on either side of Rob's mouth so he's pouting. Rob starts, then rolls his eyes. Alex can feel his cheek muscles twitching, like he's trying not to smile._

 _"Say it now."_

 _It comes out, this time, near perfect. Alex leans back, grins and sprawls out on the grass. Rob looks surprised at himself, at Alex, that this rather strange technique worked. He closes his book and lies back on the grass, his hands behind his head and his eyes closed. Alex opens his eyes then, props himself up on his elbow and watches him. He looks so peaceful like this, Alex can't tear his eyes away from his lips. He thinks of moments ago, when he'd touched them. Rob opens one eye and catches him staring. He stretches and grins at his friend, it's ever so slightly knowing._

 _"You know, I've only said it right once. We should practice it some more."_

 _Alex's throat closes up a little but he nods quickly and rearranges himself so he's facing Rob more directly._

 _"That thing you did helped," Rob suggests, his voice casual and his expression impassive. Alex nods, butterflies in his stomach fluttering, and reaches out to touch his mouth, squeezing lightly._

 _He says the word until they're both laughing at the absurdity of it all. Sitting under the bleachers, Alex's fingers squeezing Rob's face, repeating the French for eye over and over._

 _Alex's laughter dies and then, they're both silent, staring at each other. Alex's hand still touches Rob's mouth, but he's not squeezing anymore, just touching it. He takes a chance, brushes his fingers over Rob's bottom lip with a slight exhale. Rob's lips part slightly, his eyes are fixed on Alex. The gaze is completely transparent._

 _Alex's fingers brush against the wet inside of Rob's mouth and suddenly, this isn't a joke anymore, this is something that's actually happening. He leans forward slightly so that they're only about an inch apart and feels Rob's teeth and tongue against his finger. He opens his mouth slightly wider and Ales shifts another inch forward, unable to breathe. Then, Rob reaches up, closes a hand around his wrist and pulls his hand away. His entire body goes cold but a second later, Rob is kissing him._

 _He lets out a small oomph of surprise but quickly settles into the rhythm of it, melting up against Rob and reaching out a hand to hold the back of his head. Rob brings a hand down to hold his waist and pulls him closer, so their chests are pressed together. Alex's mind strays to Mr. Elliot, remembers the feeling of his weight on top of him, but pushes it all down. He's not going to let that ruin this moment, he's going to pretend that what's happening now, this kiss, is the only moment he'd ever existed in._

* * *

The next time he sees Marco, his bruises are nearly healed. The swelling's nearly completely gone and his skin is only vaguely yellow and purple. He isn't particularly hungry, Rob had shared his lunch with him that afternoon. Rob doesn't know about what happens at home to Alex. He knows he doesn't eat enough, but Alex has convinced him it's because they can't afford to buy much food, rather than the truth. That Pace gets as much as he needs, but practically starves Alex.

He enters the Bodega because Pace is drunk and Alex was there. That's never a good combination, it's like oil and water. Pace, when he's drunk, starts off in a better mood than usual. By this, Alex means he'll turn a blind eye to mess or insolence. Then, once he's a few beers deep, he'll become angry. He fumes, he throws things, he yells and beats Alex up. This is the longest stage of the whole progression, it lasts for hours sometimes. Eventually, if he drinks even further past this point, he becomes incoherent and disoriented. This gives Alex an opportunity to get away to the bathroom and clean himself up. Normally, he'll return to his foster father passed out on the couch.

Pace was in a good mood when he left, but Alex knows that won't last long. He's going to wait it out.

Marco grins at him when he walks in, which he returns. He sits down on the palette of orange juice and coke cans, watching Santi sip on a juice box. He's got a purple mouth now, it looks like artificial grape flavour.

"Is your face okay? It looks a bit..."

Alex tuns away from Santi to Marco, whose smile has faded slightly and is watching him in concern from behind the counter. He reaches up a hand and touches his cheek, where he can still feel marginal swelling beneath his fingers.

"Si, está bien."

 _Yeah, it's fine_

Marco frowns slightly, peers a little closer and sits back on his chair.

"Es ilegal que un adulto golpee a un niño y dejar marcas ¿Lo sabías?"

 _It's illegal for a parent to hit their kid and leave a mark. You know that?_

Alex frowns and crosses his legs, avoiding eye contact. He does know that, he's wondered a lot about where people draw the line between discipline and abuse. Pace has certainly crossed it, no good parent nearly kills their kid, has sent them to the ER more than once.

"Sí. Lo sé."

 _Yeah. I know_

Alex frowns and shrugs, still avoiding all eye contact. He can't tell Marco anything, he's dealing with this himself. Pace will kill him if he tells anyone, and that's barely a hyperbole.

"¿Tu padre adoptivo hace esto?"

 _Your foster dad do that?_

Alex shrugs again and stands up, begins to idly pace the store, running his fingers along the items on the shelves, turned away from Marco. The shopkeeper lets out an audible sigh but changes the course of the conversation. His tone becomes lighter, Alex's posture relaxes.

"Hungry?"

Alex shrugs, turns back to face him and folds his arms.

"I had lunch at school."

Marco shrugs, glances up at the clock above the door. The minute hand has just moved to make it five thirty-five.

"That was hours ago, you don't need a snack or anything?"

Alex laughs, this guy's acting like his dad or something. He shrugs and turns back to the shelf behind him. It's the candy section, full of brightly coloured wrappers and bold fonts. He doesn't eat much candy these days, but that's not for a lack of want to. He likes Hershey's, M&Ms and Snickers just fine. He is a teenager. He just never has money to spend on that kind of thing.

He picks up a Hershey's bar and holds it up to Marco, tilting his head, asking for permission.

"Sure."

Alex grins, sits back up on the palette and opens the chocolate. He and Rob share stuff like this sometimes, but he doesn't get it often, he sometimes forgets what they taste like. Customers come in and out, normally with only a nod or nothing at all in Alex's direction. He and Marco chat a little on and off, in Spanish, about coming to New York. Turns out he came here nearly fifteen years ago after his daughter was born, from Nicaragua. He opened up this place soon after and in the last two years, he's been working towards getting into university.

Alex is starting to feel more comfortable here, more welcome. Like maybe Marco was the sort of person he could give half a chance. That is until a girl of about fifteen bounces through the door.

She, unusually for this country, wears a school uniform. It's a plain, dark blue pleated skirt, a white blouse and a black blazer. Her hair is like Marco's, thick and very curly, bouncing around her head energetically as she steps into the shop. Her eyes are dark and her face is small and cheerful. A backpack is slung over her shoulder and her socks gather in crinkles around her ankles.

"Mija!"

Marco looks up from his newspaper and grins broadly at the teenage girl, reaching up a hand to high five her. She smacks it energetically and all at once, Alex feels like he's intruding on some sort of family moment. He shouldn't be hanging around in this place, he should just go down to Central Park, chill out by the lake.

The girl turns to him and looks him up and down with furrowed eyebrows. She glances at her father and crosses to the drinks shelf, picking up a bottle of juice.

"¿Quién es el niño?"

 _Who's the kid?_

Marco smiles at him but he just stands up, pocketing the last of his Hershey's bar.

"El nombre de el 'niño' es Alejandro, y él habla español, así que ten cuidado."

 _'The kid's' name is Alexander, and he speaks Spanish, so be careful._

She looks him up and down again, taking in his ragged appearance and bruised face. Her eyes crease somewhat and she tilts her head.

"¿Eres tú un indigente?"

 _Are you homeless?_

He scowls at her, his stomach feeling tight and a blush creeping across his face. Marco looks a little annoyed and shoots him an apologetic look from behind his daughter's back. He ignores it, he's far too proud to keep taking food of a family that just see him as a charity case.

"No. Me voy. Gracias, Marco."

 _No. I'm going. Thanks, Marco._

She watches him as he leaves and he hears Marco call out an ¡Espere!, but he doesn't look back, just walks out onto the street and pulls up his hood.

* * *

"Eva!"

Marco runs a hand through his hair and stares at the door Alejandro just walked out of before turning an exasperated gaze to his daughter.

"What?"

She hops up onto the pallet that the boy had been sitting on and opens the bottle of juice, taking a large gulp. Her hair blows in the breeze from the fan and she huffs in annoyance before tying it up into a knot.

"You can't just ask people if they're homeless!"

Eva shrugs and takes off her school bag. It's heavy, weighed down with all her revision booklets and folders. Her back's been killing her all day.

"He looked it."

Marco frowns, picking up the pacifier from where it'd dropped from Santi's mouth and passing it back to him.

"Well, he's not."

"What was he doing here anyway?"

Marco sighs. This is a difficult conversation to have, and a difficult situation to have gotten himself into.

"I... Well, a week or two ago I caught him trying to steal from here."

Eva raises an eyebrow, "so the most logical conclusion was to invite him back and give him more stuff, desde luego."

Marco dismisses this, continues as though he hadn't heard her.

"He was trying to nick food, I was going to take it back, but you've seen the kid. He looks like he never eats, malnutrido ¿Sí?"

Eva plays with the plastic wrapper around the bottle of juice and dangles her legs over the edge of the palette.

"He's always bruised up, he's not homeless, but I think the guy he lives with beats him up. He came in with a horrible... _quemadura_ on his arm the other week, told me he fell against a hot water pipe.

"Tal vez lo hizo."

 _Maybe he did?_

Marco shakes his head, "it was the wrong shape, and it was bad, like something hot had been _pressed_ to his arm. You know when fall against something hot, you step back at once, don't you? This didn't look like he was able to."

Eva frowns, takes a swig of her drink. She's starting to feel like a bit of an asshole.

"And he's been away for a couple of days now, then he comes in today moving like he's got broken ribs or something, with a bruised up face."

Eva bites her lips and plays with a strand of hair, "why don't you call child services or something?"

Marco shrugs, grabs Santi's shoulders before he reaches too far for his toy and falls off the counter.

"I don't even know his full name, or where he lives, or if it's even his foster father doing this."

Eva crosses her legs and watches her little brother play with his toy. Her dad's always been the protective sort. He looks so tough, he's got this big tattoo on his back and everything, but every time they go on the subway or walk through the city together, he has to stop when they see those homeless parents and their kids on the corners.

They're not always super steady, financially, Eva knows this is because of her expensive tuition fees (her dad insisted on putting her in private school) but it seems like he can always spare five bucks for that young woman and her baby near the B15 bus station.

She supposes it's the same for Alejandro. She's not seen him around before, but he's her age. Maybe they have mutual friends, who knows? Brownsville is small, maybe he goes to the public high school most of her elementary school friends go to now. She takes out her phone, still contemplating the situation, and finishes her drink.

Across from her, Marco sighs. Santi's diaper needs to be changed and that's always a messy, unpleasant experience.

* * *

This might actually be it. This might be the time when he actually does it. Purposefully or not, Alex wonders if this is the night Pace loses it and kills him.

He pins him up against the wall first, both large hands come up to wrap around his throat and press down hard, cutting off his air supply. He tries to stay still, knows Pace will hurt him more if he struggles, but soon he's kicking and thrashing to get away, the muscles in his throat fluttering desperately for air. He brings up his hands to pull at Pace's grip, scraping his nails down them and pinching his flesh, but it doesn't give. His vision's starting to swim now, little black buzzing dots like flies swarm his vision.

Pace lets go. Alex crumples to the floor, previously only held standing by his foster father's iron grip. He chokes and splutters, frantically gasping in air and trying to crawl away across the floor, his chest heaving and his hair hanging down into his face. His lungs burn like he's swallowed kerosene and had a match lit in his mouth, his head pounds from the deprivation of oxygen. He's caught with a sharp kick in his side and he topples over onto his back, winded, barely able to breathe.

Pace stalks forward, he's so much taller than Alex, infinitely stronger and more willing to hurt, strangle and crush. He kicks Alex again in the stomach, Alex's body seems to curl around the blow, trying to absorb it, but the pain still winds him. He groans, rolls onto his stomach and lies there, panting, his pulse rattling in his veins. He hopes Pace will just get bored, maybe if he's unresponsive, becomes like a rag-doll, he'll get bored kicking something yielding, something that doesn't yell or cry or flinch away. There's a reason the guy doesn't just use a punching bag.

This goes out the window when Pace begins kicking him over and over, his ribs, his stomach, one even lands right between his legs and he lets out a yell of pain, curling up into himself and feeling hot, wet tears roll down his face. Pace doesn't even falter, he crouches down and seizes Alex's head up off the floor by his hair, twisting it around his hand and exposing his tear-streaked face. He lands a punch right on Alex's mouth and he feels blood gush hot and metallic from his lip. He runs his tongue along all of his teeth and feels one a little looser than it had been before.

Pace punches him in the face twice more, once in his jaw (Alex hears it click at this, he hopes nothing's dislocated) and again at his eye. Each time a punch lands, his head's knocked sideways with the force of it, his hair tugging sharply in Pace's grip. Then, his foster father stands up and begins to kick him again, this is his favourite and most commonly used method of torture. Alex thinks he'll have stomach issues in the future, he'll blame Pace. That is unless Pace kills tonight.

Then, as if his thoughts decide at that moment to manifest themselves in reality, Pace sends a particularly hard kick into his belly and he feels stomach acid rise in his throat, scorching his mouth and insides. He's sick across the floor, coughing and spluttering as he heaves up the contents of his stomach with a sickening rattle. It really is just acid he throws up, he's not eaten much today. There's a granola bar Rob gave him in semi-digested chunks on the floor, but mostly, it's sharp, acidic liquid that stings the cut on his lip.

Pace stops kicking him then, Alex doesn't look up, he's lying across the floor, vomit in his hair. His foster father mutters something under his breath, something along the lines of 'dirty f**got', but he's not sure. He's barely conscious, his eyes flutter shut, he's desperate to escape this pain, this horrible thrumming throb.

Then, a last kick between his legs sends him spiralling into unconsciousness.

He comes round in a pool of his own blood and vomit. It's in his hair, on his clothes, cracked and dried around his mouth. The room is dark, it smells like a slaughterhouse. Acid and the unmistakable, metallic stench of blood.

He can't move. He can barely see out of one eye, it's swollen nearly shut, and his stomach and ribs feel like they've been ploughed into by a tractor. His groin throbs too, where he was kicked twice, a pain that seems to sing louder than all the others.

He slips back under again, into the welcome numbness.

When he wakes up again, it's still dark. He groans in pain (that action in itself hurts) and rolls onto his back, breathing heavily. He's not dead, that's something. He's sticky and in pain, he feels disgusting, filthy. He knows he is. He reckons his ribs are broken and reaches gingerly up to press down on each one, feeling gently for a break. When he gets to his third and fourth false rib on his left side, he feels it.

The bone moves under his finger and he hisses sharply, the same sound a pierced balloon gives out when deflating. He hopes the break's a clean one, that he's not punctured a lung, because there's no way he's going to the ER for all of this.

It hurts to breathe. Each inhale sends an absolute stab of pain throughout his body and he whimpers as he sits up, pushing sticky hair from his face and trying to breathe in a way that doesn't trigger a spiral of pain across his chest. He stumbles to the kitchen, how he moves there is beyond him, and wets a rag. He throws this down onto the mix of blood and vomit on the floor and cleans it sloppily, kneeling on the wood, his eyes watering at the smell.

When he's finished, he walks to the bathroom. He hasn't even made it halfway down the hall when his foot catches on something large and heavy and he trips, crashing towards the floor with an ear-splitting yell and landing on his front, his ribcage slammed into the floor from the force of the impact.

He yells again and then, the door at the end of the hallway opens. Pace. Alex tries to scramble away, his breathing shallow, but Pace is beside him before he can even move into a defensive position. He kicks Alex hard in the thigh, the nearest limb to his foot, and crouches down beside him, seizing his chin and pressing down on the bruises battered into it.

"It'd do you good to keep your fucking mouth shut for once."

Alexander grins, spits blood, "not much chance of that."

Pace drops his face, his head is limp and falls straight to the floor. Another kick is aimed directly at his stomach. Alexander rolls away, whimpering at the blaze of pain inside him. He somehow manages to stand up and there it is. The door, right in front of him. He could run out, it's his only option, he could open it and run.

This is just what he does. Alex slams the door behind him and doesn't wait to be called back, or dragged back. He stumbles down the corridor of the apartment building and has reached the elevators in seconds, the prospect of Pace catching up with him enough incentive to sprint despite the pain.

He takes the elevator to the ground floor, swallows a mouthful of blood and collapses on the sofa in the lobby. No one's down here, it's past midnight, so he allows himself time to breathe, control his shivering and devise a plan.

Staying here is out of the question. People will start moving in and out of their apartments from four or five onwards, this is New York, the city that never sleeps. He can't go back up to Pace's apartment, because there's a good chance he'll break even more of his ribs up there, and he can't go to the ER. Pace would kill him, Alex hates having to give a fake name to avoid paying the bill and the nurses are always suspicious of how he gets all these injuries.

Alex would go to the Gordons or another previous, kind foster family, but he's in The Bronx now, he doesn't know anyone around here. Almost all his foster families have lived in Manhattan, a full subway ride away.

He only really has one place to go. He doesn't much like it, he doesn't want to go back, but it's the only place around here he knows, with some certainty, will help him.

He hobbles out of the apartment building and looks up and down the street. It's empty, the stores are closed except for a twenty-four-hour seven eleven. Marco's store closes late, around eleven, but he can't compete with the big businesses that can afford to employ desperate college students to keep their stores open constantly.

Cars drive by but no one gives him a second glance as he crosses the road and makes his way towards the store. Marco lives in the apartment above the store, he's described it as small but comfortable but has talked briefly about plans to move out once more money comes in, or get it done up a little nicer. He knows the entrance is off the side of the shop, if you walk down the alleyway there's a door they come in and out of. Alex doesn't know for sure, but he guesses that leads to where they live.

He walks around the side of the store and finds their door. It could easily have been shabby and dirty looking, it leads off onto an alley and no one really sees it anyway, but it's been painted a bright, sky blue colour and someone, Alex thinks Santi, has stuck dinosaur stickers onto the window set into it. There isn't a doorbell, but Alex thinks a good, loud knock will do it. God, he's not thinking straight. He must be concussed or something, because in any other situation, he'd rather sleep on the street than wake up a family for help in the middle of the night.

The knock rings out for a second or two through the house and Alex waits, shivering in the alleyway. Inside is silent, no lights are on, no baby cries.

 _No one's home. No one'll answer. You'll have to sleep in a public bathroom or a bus station. Why did you leave? Oh God, you should never have left. Fuck, you could have taken another kick or two, oh God_ —

The door opens and Alex starts, shying away and looking up fearfully at the figure in the doorway. Marco's in pyjamas, sweatpants and a white vest, a thin gold chain with a crucifix on it hangs around his neck and he wears Adidas slippers. He's muscled, stronger and taller than Pace in a way Alex didn't notice when he'd been sat behind the counter, dressed properly in jackets and tracksuits.

"Alejandro?"

Alex nods, isn't sure what to say in response, just hopes his appearance speaks for itself. Marco frowns, squints at him through the dim lighting. Alex knows the exact second he registers what the marks on his face are, the blood in his hair, dripping from his mouth. His eyes go wide and he steps back instinctively, pale as the lime streetlights that don't permeate this back alley well enough to see clearly.

He beckons for Alex to come in and the teenager takes a step forwards. That's when his legs buckle. He falls towards the floor with a yelp and is only saved by Marco's remarkable reflexes. He lands in strong, grounding arms and is prevented from falling heavily to the ground, instead supported gently by the man in front of him.

"Mierda, mierda ¿Que pasó? ¡Puta!"

 _Shit, shit. What happened? Holy shit!_

Alex groans in pain, it's not a response, and allows Marco to help him inside. The apartment's small but tidy, like they take pride in the place. It smells just like his mom's cooking, like that gallo pinto Marco offered him a few days ago. He wouldn't say no to that now. He's not actually allergic to cilantro.

He's led to a small living room, furnished with a TV, a couch and loads of personal touches they must have accumulated over the years. Those colourful candles his mom owned, the ones in jars embossed with serene photos of Jesus and Mary, sit on the shelves above the television and he nearly trips over a single chancla in the doorway. This place really is like home.

He falls backwards onto the couch and hears Marco rushing around the room and the hallway, cursing in Spanish. There's a yell from a room upstairs.

"¿Qué mierda? ¡Estoy intentando dormir!"

 _What the fuck? I'm trying to sleep!_

Alexander supposes it's Eva, or it could be Marco's wife, though he's never seen her before.

"¡Léxico, Mija!"

 _Language!_

Alexander groans and closes his eyes, the yelling is making his head hurt. He hears footsteps patter down the stairs and the light switch is flipped on, making him wince and throw a hand up to his face. Eva stands in the doorway in pyjama shorts and some school sports t-shirt, her hair braided back off her face and her expression cross.

"¿Qué estás haciendo aquí?"

 _What are you doing_ here?

He lifts his hand from his face, her jaw drops.

Marco rushes back into the room then, moving Eva out of his way in a manner that isn't gentle exactly, but isn't violent either. He places his hands on her shoulders and leads her past him, so he can move in and out of the room hastily. He shoots her a warning look, as if telling her to behave herself and turns back to Alex. He looks frantic, he holds something wrapped in a t-shirt in his hand, Alexander hopes it's ice, and some water in a glass.

He hands Alex the ice-pack, who instantly presses it to his face, wincing and taking a deep, painful breath. He clutches his ribs and tilts his head back, whimpering in pain, trying not to cry.

"¿Qué te ha pasado?"

 _What happened to you?_

He says nothing, sighs as his face starts to go numb with the cold. He knows he looks absolutely awful, he has vomit and blood in his hair, on his clothes for God's sake.

"Gracias, lo siento, lo siento mucho."

 _Thank you, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry._

Marco throws Eva a glance, Alexander doesn't catch what it is. Whether it's disgust or fear or revulsion, he's not sure.

"What do you need? ¿Analgésicos? ¿Vendas? Más hielo? ¿Comida?"

 _Painkillers? Bandages? More ice? Food?_

Alex doesn't know what the first thing on that list, sometimes his Spanish vocabulary is a little lacking. He hopes he was offering Tylenol or painkillers or something, because Alex could do with taking a couple of those right now.

"¿Tienes... Painkillers?"

 _Do you have painkillers?_

Marco nods, flicks his head in the direction of the stairs. Eva grumbles slightly under her breath but moves hastily from the room, her slippered footsteps patter up the stairs.

"¿Te golpeó?"

 _He beat you?_

Alex doesn't respond, pretends like he doesn't hear Marco. He's just realised how horrible he must smell, like blood and vomit. He sniffs his hair, it's caked in both. He gags.

"Tu cabello... What's in it?"

 _Your hair..._

Alex winces, closes his eyes, takes shallow breaths.

"Yo vomite."

 _I got sick._

Marco groans, pinches his nose bridge and watches Alex in horror.

"¿Estás enfermo o te golpeó demasiado duro?"

 _Are you ill or did he hit you too hard?_

Alex shrugs, a non-answer. Neither is good, but he doesn't want to admit he was just kicked hard enough he puked everywhere.

"We have a shower, do you want to use it?"

Alex shrugs. He doesn't like the idea of getting undressed in somebody else's house. It makes him feel vulnerable. To be fair, he hates the feeling of having own vomit and blood caked into his hair more. Then again, his ribs are broken. He won't be able to undress on his own. Fuck, he hadn't thought about that. How's he going to look after himself with broken ribs?

"My ribs are broken, I think."

Marco presses a hand to his forehead and closes his eyes, takes a deep breath and crosses himself. Despite himself, Alexander smiles. He's reminded irrevocably of his mother.

"Escucha, tomaré estos... Painkillers, then... Regresaré."

 _Listen, let me take these painkillers, then I'll go back._

Marco looks up then, his eyes wide, and shakes his head furiously.

"No vas a volver. Llamaré a la policía."

 _Don't go back. I'm calling the cops._

Alex stands up, drops the ice pack and instantly regrets it. He doesn't falter, just stands his ground.

"You... No! I'm- I'm going. I don't know why I came here in the first place."

He moves towards the door but Marco takes hold of his wrist and stops him, it's not gentle, but it certainly isn't violent. Alex tries to pull away, his heart hammering, but Marco shakes his head.

"Don't go back there, don't. I-I... I won't call the cops, just don't go back."

Eva comes down the stairs then, a bottle of Tylenol in her hand. She pauses upon seeing them in the hallway, frowns.

"You still need this?"

Alex nods and she hands it to him. He has to stretch forward to reach it and he can't stop the grunt of pain that rips from his throat at the movement. He opens the bottle, pours three pills into his hand and swallows them down. He feels weak, he's probably slightly concussed. He needs to sit down, he needs to _sleep_.

"No llames a la policía."

 _Don't call the cops._

Marco nods, looks at him beseechingly, he's breathing heavily, his body radiates uncertainty.

"I won't. We'll help you."

Eva nods quickly, eyeing his injuries with fear and a morbid sort of curiosity.

"Do you have shit for my face?"

Marco nods, he turns towards where Alex thinks the kitchen might be and mutters _léxico_ as he goes. Alexander tries to smile, but he can only really manage a small grimace and stumble back towards the couch. They help him clean away the blood around his mouth and give him some sort of alovera-vaporub hybrid for the swelling around his eye.

Then comes the problem of his hair. He needs to wash it, submerge it under something properly, no cloth will work on this. But his broken ribs have rendered him incapable of raising his hands past a sixty-degree angle to his body. He's also barely conscious and hardly able to stand. In a shower, he'd probably collapse and hurt himself.

So they decide he can wash the blood and sick out of his hair over the sink in the bathroom. He sits on a chair, tilts his head forward over the basin and lets the water run over his head, warm and cleansing. Eva helps him wash his hair, her hands are no-nonsense and gentle. He's reminded of the nebulous memories of his very early childhood, having his mother wash his hair for him. Working in the shampoo methodically, humming along to the music that seemed to perpetually play in his house. He remembers Papa coming home from work and not yelling at his mom, just chatting to her while she rinsed away the bubbles in his hair. He'd have been about three, it's probably his earliest memory.

He hears her give a gasp when the water runs red. He has blood in his hair from his mouth and from where some's been ripped out, but it wasn't visible before. His hair's as dark as theirs.

He dries off his hair when she's done and she finds him a new shirt to wear, since his other one's covered in vomit. Marco waits downstairs for them, he's put out a blanket and pillow on the sofa for Alex and some tea sits steaming on the coffee table.

Alexander comes down the stairs with Eva, sees all this and promptly bursts into tears. It's just too much. He came here at one in the morning, bleeding, battered, collapsed on Marco, woke Eva up and asked for them to help. And then they treat his face, wash his hair, give him tea and somewhere to sleep.

He's a little overwhelmed.

Marco helps him sit down and comforts him as he simultaneously apologies and thanks them, wiping away his tears, embarrassed, and taking a deep breath. Marco, with Alex's permission, feels for his broken ribs and brings more ice packs them and his swollen face. His stomach is a collage of bruises and they give him some vaporub for that too. Alex has to smile at that. It seems it's a universal Latino thing, the idea that vaporub will cure _anything_.

There's not much more they can do for him after that. Marco offers him something to eat, which he refuses, and asks if he wants to just go to sleep. Alex can think of nothing he wants more, he's desperately tired.

"Call me if you need anything or if something's wrong ¿sí?"

"Sí. Y gracias... Has hecho demasiado."

 _Yeah, and, thanks. You've done too much._

Marco waves his hand dismissively and Eva smiles at him tiredly, sympathetically. He's forgiven her for asking him if he was homeless. She's more than made up for it.

He falls asleep on the couch the very minute they've left the room, one ice-pack clutched to his ribs, the other to his face. The pain his dimmed substantially, those Tylenols have kicked in and the ice is doing a good job numbing his injuries. His sleep is almost peaceful.

* * *

He wakes up late. He knows this for a myriad of reasons. The light, firstly, shocks his eyes as he opens them, like a flashlight being turned on suddenly in a dark room. The smell of breakfast cooking elsewhere in the house reaches him even through the closed living room door. He can't quite identify what the smell is, it's coffee and something else. Something good, almost definitely with that Goya sazón stuff his mom bought in bulk all the time.

But he won't eat, he'll just get his things and go, they've done too much for him. He's not even that hungry, he's not desperate or starving like he's been the other times they've fed him. He's fine.

He sits up with a groan and presses a hand to his face, feeling the swollenness of his eye and lip. He reckons he looks like he's had some sort of bad allergic reaction. Man, if only allergies were the worst of his problems. His ribs are sore and his stomach is bruised, but between his legs, the pain is all but gone. That was low of Pace, a cheap shot, then again, isn't everything he does exactly that?

He rakes his hair out of his face. It smells of, well, hair. Just that natural, human sort of smell. A little sweet, a little musky. Not at all bad. He hadn't used shampoo or anything last night, it wasn't a hair salon. Priority had been getting the blood and vomit out of his hair, not giving him a makeover.

He doesn't stretch, despite the stiff ache in his every limb. His ribs make every moment spent not in pain precarious, he has to move delicately, otherwise a sharp stab sears across his left side.

He toes his shoes on and walks out through the house, into the store out front. He reckons Eva's at school, but Marco is, as usual, sat behind the counter with little Santi on his knee. He looks up at Alex as he enters and smiles, albeit with a look of concern evident on his face. Alex knows he's not a pretty picture, he thanks God the store is empty.

"Sleep alright?"

Alex shrugs, lets his fingertips slide over the packets of rice and pasta stacked on the shelves by the wall.

"Actually, yeah. Pretty okay."

Marco nods, his knee rocks up and down as Santi sucks on his thumb, half asleep. He's not a particularly loud baby, he didn't even wake up when Alex came in last night, but Alex, he's mentioned this before, as a rule, doesn't like babies.

"Go back in and get some more vaporub. Your face will hurt less once the swelling goes down."

Alex shrugs and folds his arms, leans against the shelf of dry foods.

"Tal vez no. Regresaré de todos modos, hay cosas para mi cara allí."

Marco frowns, his expression is weary and defeated. He knows he can't stop Alex from going back to his legal home, his legal guardian, but that doesn't mean he likes it.

"Eat something before you go, at least. Doesn't seem like they feed you much wherever you live."

The corner of Alex's mouth twists down and he scans the shelves longingly, wishing he could accept.

"No. It's fine. They don't give me food as a punishment, I think I've been punished enough for their standards. I'll be allowed eat."

He says this matter-of-factly, it's true. Pace couldn't care less what he eats after he's lain into him like he did last night. If he starved Alex even then, he'd never heal, he'd probably be in much worse shape than he is now. Pace doesn't care about his well-being, he just has to keep Alex hovering on the cusp of 'okay' for the _majority_ of the time.

Marco looks a little sick at his proclamation. His arms around Santi seem to tighten marginally and he glances down Alexander's appearance, probably mentally converting the skinniness of his frame to the number of times Alex has been punished in this way.

"You won't be in trouble for coming here?"

Alex thinks of Pace beating him for coming to this place, asking him what he was doing for the food they give him, whether he was earning it 'just like his mother.'

"It'll be okay, it's not like I never eat. Most of the time, I can," this isn't exactly the truth, it's only near it, "don't worry. Okay."

Marco stares at him for a moment, thoughtful, then nods.

"Come back sometime soon, so we know you're okay."

Alex's gut tightens, in a way that isn't exactly born of pain or fear. It's warm, almost. He feels cared about. Like someone of the face wretched planet cares whether he's okay or not.

"Okay."

"And, come here if you need anything, whenever."

He nods again, that warmth tugs for a second time inside him and he manages a smile. Wider than before, a little, he thinks, friendly. Marco smiles back and he hobbles from the store.

* * *

Pace is still asleep when he gets back. He cleans the beer cans and ashtrays from the sitting room and opens a window to let the smell out. It's mostly alcohol, that thick, sweet, mulchy smell that settles in clothes and hair like dust. But underneath it, well, that's the gorier stuff. There are hints of sick, acidic and invasive, with traces of blood too. The spot on the floor where he puked is all clean, he did that last night, but Alex can only look at that spot and recall the smell of a slaughterhouse. The feeling of dried vomit cracking around his mouth when he spoke, of it sticking clumpy in his hair.

The poets, the romanticists, they all write pretty, flowery things about bruises and sadness and being hurt by people you're supposed to trust. None of them ever mention all the nastier stuff. They can go on for hours about veins unfurling across eyelids like forks of lightning or bruises like violets in bloom, but they never mention the smell of hour old vomit that you haven't washed from your clothes yet or the feeling of blood sticking your skin to cold wood floor.

Alex shouldn't have to clarify this, but pain is never as pretty as people like to make out.

* * *

He goes to Rob's house one Thursday after school. It's a hot day, far too hot to be comfortable. Alex is used to the fresh, breezy heat you get in Nevis from the sea. When it's warm out, but the cool ocean is never far away and the breeze carries the fresh, salty air straight to your doorstep. New York isn't like this, it's dusty and hot, the blocks sit stagnant and half obscured in a smoggy haze.

He and Rob walk along the streets, hands brushing, fingers occasionally catching and intertwining as they stroll. They chat, crack jokes and scuff their shoes in the dust. They're going to do some revision at Rob's, his place has air conditioning. Pace's, unfortunately, doesn't. Alex has to throw open his windows at night and hope for the best.

"My parents won't be home, by the way, both at work."

Alex raises an eyebrow, three of his fingers catch around Rob's and they link for just a moment, a brief touch of warm skin. They reach his place, a shabby sort of block at the corner of a busy intersection, and Rob leads him up the stairwell to their flat.

It's around the same size as Pace's, so two bedrooms, a sitting room, a kitchen and a bathroom. It's infinitely nicer, though. Decorated and kept a million times better than Pace ever could his. It's not exactly fashionable or chic, but it's cool and breezy, lacy curtains flutter in the wind and the leather couch is cold when Alexander collapses down onto it.

"Do you want a drink? Mom made sun tea."

"Sun tea?"

Rob laughs as he jogs over to the balcony door. He's wearing shorts today. Alex catches a glimpse of pink-beige heel as he runs, sees the muscle in the back of his legs pulling taut, feels something stir in the pit of his stomach.

"It's like a southern thing. Sweet tea, but you like brew it in the sun. Georgian parents, ya know?"

"Americans are so fucking weird. Just make tea like a normal person, why don't you?"

Rob grins and comes back from the balcony holding a large jug of tea. His footsteps echo towards the kitchen and Alex stretches out as he hears cupboards opening and the clink of ice and glasses.

Rob comes back a minute or so with two tall glasses of tea, ice in both, condensation forming appealingly on the glass. He passes a glass to Alex, who takes a sip appreciatively. It's cold, sweet and spreads a cooling, icy sensation down his throat, all the way to his stomach. It's nice, but it really just tastes like normal sweet tea. He doesn't know why it has to be brewed in the sun.

They get out their textbook and pencil cases, quickly starting on some Geography work. It's a project they're doing together, a hypothetical plan of Brownsville if its space was optimised and money wasn't a problem. Basically, they're gentrifying it, doing what every city council planning and architecture agent is trying to do to their neighbourhood anyway.

They finish this over the course of an hour or so, heads bumping as they write in such close proximity. Rob's legs sprawl out behind them, he's on his front, supporting himself by this elbows. Alex is in the same position, his legs tangle up with Rob's, calves pressed together. Finally, Alex drops his pen, lets his head thunk onto their map of Brownsville and rolls over onto his back, yawning.

"Well, glad that's done."

Rob watches him fondly, reaches out to boop his nose playfully. Alex grins and tilts his chin up so that the finger brushes from his cupid's bow to his lips. He bites it playfully, maintaining eye-contact with his friend. Then he closes his eyes, speaking through the finger on his lips.

"Did you invite me over so we could do this homework or is there another, more _disingenuous_ reason I should know about?"

Rob grins, removes his finger and leans further in, one arm bracing himself over Alex. Alex grins, props himself up on his elbow and presses his lips to Rob's. It's soft at first, Alex letting Rob take the lead, reaching up one hand to touch his jaw.

In moments like these, where there might be a danger of him having a flashback, or being reminded of Mr. Elliot, Alex just closes his eyes. He pretends that the past and the future don't exist, that they never have and that he only lives in the very pleasant now.

Rob backs him up against the sofa so that their heads are level with the armrest, keeling on the rug. His palms press firmly into Alex's cheeks, they're warm and strong and everything Alex has wanted all day. Rob kisses hard, for half a second he's knocked sideways, but the hands on his face, now his shoulders, his waist, are enough to keep him steady.

Their lips haven't left each other's for a single moment. Rob reaches up behind Alex's head and pulls out his hair wildly. His tight ponytail falls out with a small amount of pain, but Alex doesn't care. Rob's fingers curl into the stands and they continue kissing like a wildfire.

Rob breaks away then, just for a moment, to watch Alex. He's panting slightly, a pinkish tinge spread across his cheeks and his hair falling messily around his face. Rob lets out a shuddering laugh, he's slightly breathless too.

"If my parents came home, you could be my girlfriend!"

Alex scowls and thumps Rob angrily on the back, "Fuck off! I do not look like a girl!"

Rob shrugs exaggeratedly and Alex launches himself at him, pushing them both backwards onto the rug. Alex lands on top, his hair hangs down into Rob's face, swaying in the breeze from the open windows.

"Apologise," he smirks, looking down at him with a cocky smile, eyebrow raised to let Rob know he's won. Rob strains uselessly to get up, but Alex holds firm, grinning.

"Unless you want me to go home? We've finished the homework, haven't we? Maybe you don't want these again," he runs a finger over his lower lip and smiles playfully. Rob rolls his eyes and lets out a long-suffering sort of sigh.

"I'm sorry, you don't look like a girl," he grins, "you're a very handsome _boy_."

It's Alex's turn to roll his eyes, but Rob doesn't see the action, because he's already propped himself up to press his lips to Alex's again. Alex's legs come to be stretched either side of Rob, so he's straddling him as they kiss. Rob's lips stray from his mouth and glide over his jaw, Alex feels tongue against his skin and closes his eyes, letting Rob push him further backwards, so he's nearly lying down.

Rob's mouth latches onto the pulse point directly beneath Alex's jaw bone and his breath stutters, like a candle. His arms wrap around Rob's back to pull him closer, there's no room in the space between their bodies for morality or foresight. Alex wraps his arms around Rob's waist and tilts back his head as Rob goes about sucking a bruise into Alex's throat. Alex's mind, the small section that isn't lost in the sensation of Rob's lips, repeats a frantic mantra.

 _Don't let his parents come home, don't let his parents come home, don't let his parents come home, don't let his parents come home._

Rob may say he could be his girlfriend, yet Alex isn't so sure that would work.

These brief, barely formed thoughts are dispelled when Rob's hands slip under his shirt to his waist, they're warm and soft, holding tight but not restrainingly so. He feels, instantly, as though struck suddenly by lightning, that prickling, stinging sensation across his body he knows to associate with Mr. Elliot. He desperately pushes back this memory, it stumbles into the gutter of his mind, wiping blood from its face, preparing to swing again.

And then, Rob's hand slips under his waistband and into his boxers for a split second. Alex's skin suddenly feels too tight for his body and the hairs on his arms seem to stand on end. Alex scrambles back the very moment he comes to himself, pushing Rob away. His hair is wild and heavy, quivering breaths rack his entire body. He scrambles for his books and gathers all his things, stationary, papers, books and his bag into his arms. Rob is still on the floor, leant against the couch. His eyes are like saucers, his lips are swollen. He looks like a startled animal, not a deer in headlights, nothing so specific, just an animal, wide-eyed and vulnerable.

All this flashes through Alex's mind in a quarter of a second. He sprints from the room, out the door and down the staircase with such speed that he almost wishes he'd done that at track, coach'd be proud of him. He finally stops at the corner of Saratoga, his things spilling from his arms as he falls to his knees, unable to breathe, winded by the memories.

He ignores the passers-by, staring at him as he counts under his breath, palms pressed to his eye-sockets. Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq. Uno, dos, tres, quatro, cinqo. He's not thinking about how Mr. Elliot touched there too, he's not thinking about those dark eyes, he's not thinking about heavy hands on his thigh, pulling at his shirt-

Fuck! He has to get out of here. He scrambles to shoves his things into his bag and scrapes his hair from his face. Double-fuck, his hairband is somewhere on the floor at Rob's place. He sticks a pen in the bun, twists and hopes for the best. Then, he straightens up, shoulders his bag and sprints the next three blocks back to Pace's. He wishes he'd done this at track; he beats his record time by four and a half seconds.

Pace isn't in when he jerks the broken old door open - one of the hinges has fallen off, where the glass pane once was is now cardboard - and steps into the apartment. He drops his bag by the couch and collapses backwards into the old leather, breathing heavily. He doesn't know why he decided to sprint home. Rob wasn't going to run after him, but he just had to get away. Get the fuck away from all those memories, from those hands. Also, well, he's a little bit melodramatic.

He goes to the bathroom, glares at his reflection in the mirror. Why can't he just be normal? Why can't he be okay with sex like everyone else in his goddamn grade? Christ, it's all they talk about. Who has done it, who hasn't, who with and when. Alex is mature, he's intelligent and able to look after himself. Why is this simple act so difficult for him? Why did he have to disappoint Rob? He must have been really scared to do that, to take things up a notch. He must have trusted in Alex enough to think that he wouldn't reject him. God, he's fucked everything they had up.

There's a hickey on the left side of his throat, a fuzzy circle blooming dark pink against his tan. He reaches instinctively, like someone reaches for their phone in the morning, for the bottle of foundation and the sponge beside the sink. He squeezes out some and begins the process of patting in the makeup, layering it on until there's only the very slightest discrepancy in his skin tone there. The shade is a little too light, he'd bought it when he was paler in the spring.

He can't have Pace seeing he's got a hickey, he'd probably beat him until he told him who'd given it to him. Alex brushes his hair, it's a mess, and reorganises his school bag. He's ruined some of his things, papers all scrunched up in his haste.

He eats dinner then, a microwavable mac and cheese. He used to eat these loads when he lived with Katherine. They're sort of his comfort food, remind him of better times. He could use that reminder right about now.

* * *

The next day is exceedingly awkward. Alex waits outside his block for Rob to come by and walk him to school for a good ten minutes, but he doesn't show. Alex is forced to accept that he isn't coming. He gets to class early nevertheless and when he pokes his head around the door frame of homeroom, Rob is the only one there. Alex sucks in a sharp breath through gritted teeth but sidles into the room anyway, taking his usual place beside the boy. Neither of them speak at first.

"Rob?"

"You're such an asshole, you know that?"

Alex shuts his mouth, looks down at the graffiti on his desk. He scratched an A + R there as a joke one time, he looks at it now.

"I was- fuck- I was scared as hell, I trusted you not to make me feel like shit but you did! You couldn't even let me down nice!"

Alex feels guilt knot in his stomach, it's physically painful, like a lump that sits in your throat when you swallow something too big whole.

"I'm sorry... It's complicated."

Rob stands up, sits heavily down on Alex's desk and glares at him.

"You didn't even give me any warning! So you're fine with making out with me, fine with me giving you a hickey, but not the fucking normal next step?"

Alex shrugs and Rob scowls at him, then catches sight of his throat.

"And you fucking covered it up!"

He reaches out a thumb and aggressively wipes it over the spot where Alex covered the hickey. Some makeup is rubbed off and the bruise is suddenly visible against his tanned skin.

"Ashamed of me? Is that it?"

Alex presses a hand to his throat and takes a deep breath.

"I'm sorry. I wanted to do all that, you just took me by surprise. I- I would have stayed if I hadn't freaked out, we could have continued."

He doesn't know if this is necessarily true, because if he hadn't freaked out with Rob's hand down his jeans, he would certainly have with whatever might have happened next.

Rob takes his face in his hands and groans, "I just keep thinking everyone sees me as gross and you running didn't help that."

Alex reaches out a hand to touch Rob's chest, he doesn't move away.

"You're not gross. Neither of us are. I can come over again sometime..."

The implication is obvious, Rob looks up, gives a small smile and shrugs, puts a hand over Alex's where it rests on his chest.

"I- I might like that."

* * *

Alex goes over to the bodega that afternoon, just so they know he's okay. To thank Eva too, because she'd left before he'd had a chance to talk to her. He walks into the shop, the bell tinkles softly and Marco looks up, Santiago sucking a pacifier on his knee.

"Alejandro ¿Todo está bien?"

 _All good?_

Alex nods, sits in his usual spot on top of the crates of orange juice and grins at the man.

"Wanted to say thanks, again. Nos todos los días me ayudan los extraños."

 _It's not every day that strangers help me out._

Marco smiles, "it's chill. You're a good kid. You still getting hit?"

Alex shrugs, "no es tan malo."

 _Not too bad._

Marco watches him for a few moments, "where are you from again? You said Caribbean, I'm sort of getting a Boricua vibe?"

Alex nods, "sí. My parents were from Puerto Rico. I grew up in the British Virgin isles though."

"You grow up speaking English?"

Alex scowls, his English is better than some people who have it as a first language, "yeah, and I speak it well."

Marco laughs, "yeah, that was why I asked. You're too defensive."

Alex shrugs, a little embarrassed. He stands up and crosses to where Santi sits, looks fondly at the kid, boops his nose.

"¿Donde esta su mama?"

 _Where's his mama?_

Marco's smile fades a little, he picks Santi up, rocks him back and forth and speaks quietly to the child, to Alex too.

"Ella está con los ángeles, ¿Eh, Santi?"

 _She's with the angels, eh, Santi?_

Alex groans internally, he's made the same mistake people always do when they ask about his parents. No wonder he's never seen Marco's wife around, because she's not around.

"Ella murió justo después de que nació Santi. Nos mudamos aquí juntos, ella era la mujer de carrera. Pero nos las arreglamos."

 _She died just after Santi was born. We came here together, she was the career girl. But we get by._

Alex looks at his feet, feels obligated to say something about how sorry he is, or how he understands. He does get it, he's lost enough people in his life to know what that feels like, he's just not good with talking about it.

"I- I get it. Mi madre murió cuando yo tenía doce años. Yo ... también me acerco, pero la extraño."

Marco nods, Santi breaks the awkwardness, pulling out his pacifier and saying a string of nearly unintelligible Spanish. Among them, Alex hears 'Papa' and 'tengo hambre'. Alex grins. Babies, well, toddlers, are fun to listen too when they're first learning to speak. He doesn't like how messy they are, their hands are always inexplicably sticky, but Santiago's sort of cute.

Marco bustles around then, Santi walking happily around his ankles as his father brings out some snacks. Alex watches, not feeling quite as unwelcome as he has before. He feels almost at home, maybe this was how James felt watching Alex when he was this young. Though, Alex refuses to believe he was ever as messy and loud as Santi. He takes some school work from his bag and spreads it out over his lap, beginning an essay. Almost like this place is home, or something.

* * *

Rob invites him back to his place just over a week later, this time not for revision or homework, but to 'hang out', as he put it. Alex, well, Alex is nervous. He knows that kissing and making out is going to turn into more, but to be totally honest, he's not sure he's ready for that. Christ, that feels so dumb to him. He's fifteen, God, half the people in his grade say they've gotten past third base already, and he knows he has too, but not in a normal, consensual situation. He just wants to be okay with this stuff, to not be a freak.

Rob walks him back to his place one Friday, when his parents won't be home till the late evening. They chat as they walk, fingers brushing as their arms swing casually between them. Alex has been wanting to kiss Rob all day, he's not been able to take his eyes off Rob's chest, his hair, his jaw. He just wants him. Maybe not as far as Rob does, he's still not sure how much he's willing to do, but he knows he wants _something_.

There's no homework to be done or ice tea to be drank when they arrive at Rob's place. The very instant Rob has closed the door, he's grabbed Alexander's waist and has pushed him up against the wall. Their lips meet magnetically and Rob brings up his hands to clutch either side of Alex's face. He kisses hard, like it's more than a prelude to everything else. Then there's tongue in Alex's mouth and the faintest scrape of teeth against his lip, the taste of candy they'd bought coming here and hot breath mingling with his.

When Rob starts to unbutton his shirt, fingers trembling slightly, with either fear or the rush of adrenaline Alex feels burning inside him too. Alex leans back from Rob's lips, watching Rob's hands as they pop his buttons with something like nervousness in his eyes.

"You're not bailing out again?" His tone is sharper than a moment ago, his hands pause.

Alex shakes his head quickly and leans forward again so their foreheads are touching, not so much kissing as sharing breath. Rob speaks again, but his voice is a little softer.

"You sure you're okay?"

Alex nods, presses his lips back to Rob's and tugs at the ends of his sweater, shrugging off his flannel now that Rob's fully unbuttoned it.

Later, when Rob's parents come home, Alex and Rob have set out some school work on the coffee table to make it look like they've been working. It's nearing six o'clock but it's still boiling outside, the windows have been open all day and the first thing Rob's mom does when she gets in is slam them shut and berate Rob about it.

"Hello, Alexander, it's great to see you. ROBERT! I told you, only keep these open for an hour! I don't want dust all over these curtains!"

Alex stifles a laugh in his hand, prompting a glare from Rob, and starts clearing up their things on the coffee table as Rob's parent clatter around the kitchen, starting dinner.

"Alex, stay for dinner?"

Rob grins at Alex, slides a hand down his side and picks up his textbooks from the table. Alex glances around the living room, they're completely alone, and presses a kiss to his lips.

"Can I use your phone? See what Pace says."

Rob nods, chucks him his phone from where he's plugged it in to charge and sidles from the room, towards the kitchen. Alex watches him go, he's wearing shorts again, it's sort of hard for Alex to keep his eyes above his waist.

Pace picks up on the second try, Alex is digging his fingernails into his palms. Pace shouldn't care too much about him staying, as long as Alex keeps out of his way.

"Who's this?"

"It's Alex, I'm calling from a friend's phone."

"Oh. Make this quick. What do you want?"

"Can I have dinner at Rob's tonight?"

There's silence for a moment or two and Alex rolls his eyes, "think of it this way, I won't be back until you're too wasted to care."

"Fucking bastard, you should learn some respect."

"Whatever. Can I stay?"

"Yeah, spend the night too if you can. I don't want to see you around here anytime soon."

Alex hangs up. Staying the night here doesn't seem to appeal to him. As much as he likes Rob, and he really, really likes Rob, he's sort of tired. He's still not sure how feels about what went down earlier. He... He sort of dissociated as it happened, not that they went the whole way or anything, they're fifteen. But he just, well, it wasn't what he'd expected. He wasn't ready for it, despite the fact that they didn't even really have sex or anything, and he's pretty sure Rob was nervous too.

He sort of forced himself into it, he thought it would make him more mature or whatever. He feels guilty for making Rob upset, thought that reassuring him that he did like him in this way was the best course of action. Now, he thinks a conversation and the truth might have worked better.

Alex pushes some hair from his face, puts the phone back down on the sideboard and turns towards the kitchen. He should really help out, if he's staying. He's not looking forward to going back to Pace's apartment tonight. His best hope is to wait until Pace has fallen asleep, sneak into his room and leave for school before he wakes up.

Rob's parents are nice. Pretty religious, though. They say grace before they start eating, all hold hands around the table. Alex opens one eye as they pray, makes eye-contact with Rob across the table and winks at him. He winks back, rolls the one eye he has open and then closes it again, dutifully saying the words of the 'our father'. Alex only knows it properly in Spanish, so he keeps quiet until they get to the bits he has memorised in English. His mom taught it to him, they'd all say it before dinner every night.

There's a chorus of 'Amen' and Alex opens his eyes, feeling a little awkward. Rob's mother spoons salad onto his plate, lips pursed slightly.

"You're not religious, Alex?"

He's not, but if he wants to stay friends with Rob, maybe become something more official, he should get on their good side.

"I am, I just only know it in Spanish. It's how I was taught."

She smiles, suddenly looks far more relaxed and spoons him out a sizeable portion of mac and cheese, homemade, not any of that instant stuff. It even has breadcrumbs on top. Rob grins at him, pours himself some water from the pitcher on the table. He's got this look in his eye that Alex doesn't like. Like he's up to something.

"Alex goes to the 'friends of Jesus' club after school every Friday, you know?"

This is a complete lie. 'Friends of Jesus' is this stupid social group their school set up last term as an effort to accommodate more religions in their school. There are similar groups for Muslim and Jewish kids too. In 'friends of Jesus', all you do is sit around, drink watered down kool-aid and talk about God. They have like three regular members, some kids go sporadically just for kicks.

Alex would honestly rather gouge his eyes out than attend, he's heard the pastor that comes into do it brings his guitar. He's not going to some religious club to sing kumbaya and talk about a faith he abandoned years ago.

He sends a pointed look at Rob and turns his gaze back to Rob's parents, who are both smiling broadly.

"Yeah, and Rob told me he was planning to join the school choir next term, when they hold auditions. It's a Protestant one."

He takes a mouthful of mac and cheese and smiles at Rob innocently. The teenager looks as though he'd like to slit his throat.

"Maybe, I might not, it might clash with soccer so..."

He glares at Alex, who shrugs and smiles politely at Rob's dad, who's cutting the meatloaf Mrs. Troup put down beside the mac and cheese. The rest of dinner goes by smoothly, Alex tries to keep slipping in little lies about Rob to his very eager parents, in which Rob responds with even larger stories, going so far as to suggest that Alex wants to study theology at college. Alexander kicks him under the table at this, but smiles and shrugs when Mr. Troup congratulates him on this.

He helps Rob wash up afterwards and leaves at around half seven. As he's getting on his coat, Rob pushes him outside their door and into the hallway. He presses a long kiss to Alex's lips then pulls away, grinning.

"You should come around more often, when my parents aren't home."

Alex forces smile. Maybe in a year, he thinks. Maybe in a year he'll be more ready, willing to do that again, go further. But right now, he's not over what happened to him not even a year ago. He's not ready.

But he values what he has with Rob far too much to allow this to stop because of his immaturity. So he presses another kiss to his lips and nods, feeling nauseous.

"Yeah, I should."

* * *

His initial opinion of Eva has changed slightly over the last few weeks. He's still a little mad that she called him homeless, but she did wash blood and vomit from his hair, so evidently she's pretty cool. She hangs out in the bodega after school often, as he now tends to do, and they do school work together. He doesn't have any other Hispanic friends, so it's sort of nice to speak Spanish around her and Marco and not feel as out of place as he does around all the Americans he knows. They don't laugh at him when he translates Spanish expressions literally or hums along to Enrique Iglesias.

Pace doesn't know about all the time he spends down here, or that he sometimes crashes on their couch in the evenings instead of going back up to his apartment. He just thinks Alex spends the night with friends, or else stays out all night. Alex does that later one too, sometimes he'll go on walks at night in the better-lit parts of town. It's hot these days, he can wear shorts and a t-shirt, just borrow Marco's bike and cycle around the neighbourhood or else climb the roof of his apartment and chill there.

Alex isn't what he'd call happy these days, not continuously or even the majority of the time, but he does find happiness often enough to keep himself from taking more than his usual amount of sleeping pills every evening. Pace still beats him up often enough, but he has ways of dealing with it, he no longer has to pray his ribs set properly or don't puncture a lung, he can get amateur, yet decent help.

The summer holidays are rapidly approaching, with just a month left in the semester. Alex will turn sixteen in the new year, which seems so much closer than it was a month ago. Sixteen means responsibility, even more of it, and college.

It means figuring out what his relationship with Rob is, it means possibly getting free from Pace.

On the subject of Rob, things are a little uncertain. Alex allows Rob to take things further between them, though both of them know Alex is only partially willing at best. Alexander comforts himself with the thought that Mr. Elliot's no longer his only experience, that he's done consensual, normal teenage stuff too. It makes him feel normal, despite the fact that he doesn't actually like it very much.

He much prefers kissing Rob than getting to third base with him, he'd much rather hold him, hug him, than do even more. He wonders if Rob knows this, Alex has a sneaking suspicion he does. There's a sort of unspoken, untouched tension between them, like they're hovering on the cusp of an argument they might never even have.

Final exams come and Alex is suddenly far too busy with revision than to think about Rob, or Pace or Marco. Pace still beats him up that week, while he's trying to study for exams and get the best possible sleep he can. Alex wastes valuable time in the morning covering bruises, or in the evenings, tending to cracked ribs. He doesn't know why he's surprised Pace's violence didn't go on hold for his exams.

When his results do come in, a week before they break up for the summer, Alex makes a rather rash decision. It's third period, the envelopes are being given out at the end of the lesson, as they leave the classroom.

Alex drums his fingers impatiently against his desk, watching the minute hand tick closer and closer to twelve o'clock. He's got a horrible, nauseous feeling in the pit of his stomach, he's sure he'll open the results sheet to see a row of F's.

The bell goes and everyone scrambles to their feet, shoving textbooks into their bags and forming a line at the front of the classroom. Alex feels Rob's hand come up to squeeze his arm comfortingly, he gets into line behind his friend and they wait in silence.

When Alex takes the envelope out of his teacher's hand, he doesn't open it immediately. He and Rob step outside the classroom, lean against the wall of the corridor and make terrified eye-contact. Rob's parent's expectations are riding on these results, Alex's own ambitions and self-set standards are at stake here.

Alex opens his at the same time as Rob, he pulls out the sheet of paper with trembling hands, unfolds it and looks down at the letter grades printed there.

 _English: A+_

 _Biology: A_

 _Chemistry: A_

 _Physics: A_

 _Geography: A_

 _Art: B_

 _Shop: B_

 _Speech and debate: A+_

 _Social studies: A+_

 _Phys Ed: A_

 _History: A+_

 _Government and Politics: A+_

 _French: A+_

 _Spanish: A+_

 _Mathematics: A_

 _GPA: 3.98_

He looks up, his own expression of elated shock is mirrored in Rob's eyes. The teenager's mouth is slightly open, his eyes are shining, he looks overjoyed. Alex doesn't think, he grabs his face and kisses him hard, in the middle of the corridor, the entirety of his class less than twenty feet from the two of them.

It lasts only about five seconds before Alex realises what he just did. He pulls back and instantly notices that the noise in the corridor has dimmed to all but silence. Rob is breathing heavily, his eyes still shine and he's not- he doesn't look angry. He grabs Alex's arm, eyes perform a quick glance around at the shocked faces of their classmates, and jerks his head towards the doors at the end of the corridor.

Rob pulls a still grinning Alex down the corridor, past the shocked students, out into the courtyard.

"Holy fuck, 3.9!"

Alex laughs breathily, his stomach tight, too elated to be terrified their whole class saw them kiss.

"F-fuck! I got an A in phys!"

Rob pulls him into a bone-crushing hug and they jump and down like that, laughing, over-joyed. The reality of their actions has yet to sink in.

The last week of the semester should have been fun, but the day after they got their results, there are identical notes taped to both Rob and Alexander's lockers, reading ' _die fag scum'._ They get looks everywhere they go, people whispering about them in class and the corridors, throwing things at the backs of their heads at lunch and stealing their things from their bags when they leave them in homeroom

Rob takes all this well. When someone comes up them and asks who's the top and who's the bottom, Rob grins widely, flashes them the middle finger and pushes roughly past them, one hand enclosed around Alex's bicep, leading him away down the corridor. He doesn't return the violence they get, nor does he throw things back, but he's witty, good at acting like all this doesn't bother him.

Alex can stand up for himself too, but in a different sort of way. On Tuesday, when someone trips him up in the corridor with a yell of 'faggot', instead of laughing at them and walking on like Rob might, he feels rage swell inside him and flies at the boy. It's this kid in his year, he doesn't even know their name, just that they threw a pen at Rob yesterday and flushed his chemistry work down the toilet.

Alex's fist connects with their face hard, he feels a body underneath his, his knuckles raw and aching, colliding again and again with nauseating cracks against flesh. Someone is yelling, it takes him a moment to realise that it's him.

"How fucking dare you! I outta fucking rip your tongue out your mouth, you ASSHOLE!"

There's yelling around him, he can hear a teacher's voice and feet pounding towards him across linoleum. Strong arms seize him from beneath his armpits and he's dragged off the other boy, still yelling, kicking and clawing to be let go.

A crowd has gathered around the lockers where the fight happened now, Alex pushes some hair from his face, wipes his eyes (which are streaming with furious tears) and angrily shrugs off his track coach, who'd intercepted the fight.

The teenager Alex had beaten up pulls himself to his feet. His nose is bleeding, his hair is a mess and Alex's fingernails have cut three long marks into the side of his neck. He looks dumbstruck, like he expected to get away with doing that to Alex. He feels the sudden urge to fly at him again.

"Alexander, come with me. Desby, take that kid to the nurse's office. What are you all looking at? Get to class!"

Alex is pulled, not exactly roughly, down the corridor by his coach, his eyes watering, the gravity of what he's done sinking in. His coach stops in the middle of the corridor then, it's empty now, everyone has gone to class, looking furious.

"What the hell was that?"

Alex shrugs.

"It looked an awful lot like you were just beating on some unsuspecting guy!"

Alex scowls, "he tripped me up and called me a faggot! Just because I fucking- because I kissed a boy, this whole week, the entire year's giving me shit for it."

His coach's expression seems to soften, "I heard about you and Troup."

"All week, people are throwing stuff at me, stealing my things, calling me a fag! I'm sick of it!"

"That doesn't mean you can beat up everyone that calls you that, Alex."

He says nothing, looks at his knuckles. They're bruised and bloody, he thinks he missed the boy a few times and got the floor instead.

"I'm taking you to the Principal, Alex. I have too, I'm sorry."

Alex says nothing, just allows himself to be led to the Principal's office, his hands in his pockets, his hair in his eyes. He wonders if Rob's heard about this yet, it's certainly possible.

Over the next hour, the Principle listens to both Alex and the boy who called him a fag, evidently at a complete loss of what to do. Eventually, Pace is called.

Alex is fucked.

He watches his step-father's face as the Principal explains that Alex has been subject to homophobic bullying because he kissed a boy, yet attacked another student that morning.

Pace hides the disgust in his eyes well enough so that only Alex is privy to it. He nods tersely along to the standard anti-homophobic, anti-bullying platitudes the man spouts and agrees when it's decided that Alex will be suspended from now until the end of the semester in three days, but welcome to attend school again in September.

It's only when they're walking out the school office, in the direction of their neighbourhood, that Pace lets his real opinions show through.

"I always knew you were a faggot, Alexander. A whore, just like your mother, I bet that's how everyone knows you in school. How much do you charge, ten bucks? Five?"

Alex says nothing, kicks up the dust on the street and wipes sweat from his forehead. It's boiling.

"I asked you a question. How much do you charge?"

Alex glares up at him, "not a price you'd be able to afford."

Pace's jaw twitches dangerously, he looks up and down the street. Empty enough. He reaches out and punches Alex hard across the face, sending him stumbling off the curb, clutching his face. He spits blood.

"Just you fucking wait, you've made a mistake, Hamilton."

Pace can beat him up as badly as he likes now. Alex doesn't have school for over a month yet, if Pace broke all his ribs, or beat his face until he was unrecognisable, no one would know. All he has to do is keep Alex locked in his room until he heals.

So he takes advantage of this. Alex is only conscious for about a third of it all, that's the small mercy he's afforded. He feels the first kick, straight to the stomach, and the next, right between his legs. He feels each punch land like a lead weight, slamming into his face, coughs out blood and spit and vomit. He doesn't really feel the rest of it, just spirals into welcome darkness.

When he comes to, he's still on the floor, face still submerged in a pool of blood, among other things. He lies there for a while, feeling his ribs, counting the breaks. Three? Four? So much for that A in math.

When he's finally able to stand, it's all he can do to not cry out in pain. He limits himself to short, sharp gasps and the occasional curse word as he stumbles towards the kitchen. He cleans himself up as best he can and holds an ice pack to his face and ribs for the entire rest of the day. He takes five Tylenols and some melatonin, falls asleep on the couch only really half lucid.

The next few days are spent solely inside. Pace leaves him alone, lets him eat and take all the meds he wants. Alex is almost always a little drugged up these days, he exceeds the safe dosage of Tylenol and Melatonin and when they run out one Monday, he does something pretty stupid.

Pace is at work, so he pulls on a coat, ties up his hair, steals some money from the spare change ar in his bedroom and goes across the street to the bodega.

Marco doesn't recognise him instantly, he's distracted with Santi, who's making a mess with a tupperware of rice.

Alex picks up a box of Tylenol, a box of melatonin and places them on the counter, keeping his eyes down

"Alejandro!"

Alex looks up, shrugs and tries a smile, "hey, Marco."

The man's face falls a little when he takes in Alex's bruises. His face is no longer swollen beyond recognition, but it is black and blue.

"Are you okay? Did he..."

"I got suspended from school, he didn't like the reason why."

Marco gapes at him, comes around the front of the counter and goes to the candy section. He forces a Hershey's bar into Alex's hand and motions at the pallet.

"Tell me everything."

How is Marco going to react when he finds out that Alex likes boys? He's religious, he might think Alex is disgusting, unnatural, freakish, wrong.

"I-I... There's this boy, Rob. I kissed him at school. People saw, and started stealing my stuff, throwing things at me. This guy tripped me up, called me a fag. I beat him up and got suspended for three days. My foster father's homophobic."

Marco's quiet for a long moment, "you're gay?"

Alex shrugs, "well, bi."

Marco sighs, "Cuando vivía en Nicaragua, mi mejor amiga era gay. Fue golpeado por algunos muchachos de otra ciudad. Él era mi mejor amigo. Él no hizo nada malo. No soy homofóbico."

 _When I lived in Nicaragua, my best friend was gay. He was beaten up by some guys from another town. He was my best friend. He didn't do anything wrong. I'm not homophobic._

Alex nods silently, takes a bite of the chocolate and looks at his hands. He ought to leave, get back up to the apartment and take some of those pills.

"I should... I should get back, he doesn't know I'm gone. He's at work right now, but..."

Marco nods and stands up, walks around the counter again and holds out his arms. What is he doing?

"¿Puedo?"

 _Can I?_

Alex nods and lets Marco embrace him tightly. His arms are warm and gentle, Alex doesn't feel restricted or trapped, he feels loved. Maybe for the first time in over a year, he feels really loved. Marco lets go after a few seconds and hands Alex the boxes of pills.

"¿Necesitas comida o algo? ¿Eres bueno?"

 _You need food or anything? You good?_

Alex shakes his head and flashes Marco a smile, pulling open the door.

"Nos vemos más tarde, Jefe."

 _See you later, boss._

* * *

Knox calls him later that day, while Alex sits on the small, shabby balcony of the apartment, reading. The phone inside rings and Alex hastens to answer it, dragging himself to his feet and jogging to the kitchen.

"Hello?"

"Alex?"

"Knox?"

"Yeah, it's Knox."

What's he calling for? Shit, did he find out Alex got suspended?

"What's this I hear about you being from suspended from school?"

Alex groans, takes his face in his hands and heaves a sigh.

"Yeah, I beat up a guy that tripped me up and called me a fag. Save me the lecture. Is that all you're calling for?"

Knox sighs, "no. It's not. But Christ, Alex, beating someone up for just being a stupid teenager. It didn't mean anything."

"It did mean something. I'm bisexual, I kissed a boy."

There's silence for a few moments and Alex rolls his eyes. God, It's 2017. These people need to grow up.

"Yeah, I like boys, cut to the chase, Knox."

"I was going to ask whether you were happy at Mr. Pace's."

Alex furrows his eyebrows, Knox doesn't know he gets beaten here, he's not done a house call yet.

"Why?"

"I just thought... Well, a really well-respected family, very kind, a good reputation with foster kids, are looking to foster a teenager. I know Pace isn't very well off and I don't get the impression you're very close. I was wondering what you'd think of being moved."

Alex lets out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. Leave Pace? Three months ago, he'd have jumped at the chance to get away, he'd have begged on his knees for Knox to move him. Now though, there's Rob, there's Marco and Eva and Santi. _Rob_.

"Where do they live?"

A small sigh, "Virginia."

Alex closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, "I-I don't know. Can I think about it? I don't- I don't know."

Knox gives a sigh of his own, "yeah, but don't keep me waiting for too long. I don't want Stevens forcing me to choose someone else."

"Thanks, Knox."

"No problem, stay out of trouble, okay, Alex?"

"Okay. Talk to you later."

"Talk to you later."

* * *

The next time Alex sees Rob is accidental. It's around six o'clock in the evening, Alex has borrowed Marco's bike and is cycling around the neighbourhood. It helps him keep cool, especially since it's about 108 degrees today. He's just wearing a vest and some shorts, still thinking about that offer Knox gave him. The sky is a dark, clear blue directly above him, but to the west, it's on fire, deep red and orange, dying over the horizon.

He swerves into a park and down a gentle slope, the warm breeze pushes his hair off his face and he leans forward on his handlebars, urging the bike to go faster. That's when he catches sight of a figure up ahead.

He pulls the breaks just in time and screeches to a halt behind... Rob. It's Rob. Alex stands up, lets his bicycle fall to the ground, and rushes towards him, feeling an elated grin spread across his face.

"Rob! Rob!"

The teenager turns around, his hands are stuffed in his pockets and he's had his haircut, it's shorter now, buzzed almost to the scalp.

"Alex."

Alexander throws his arms around his friend, but is quickly shoved backwards. Rob's eyes are cold, his arms are folded defensively across his chest and he looks at Alex like Mr. Elliot would look at homeless people that asked for spare change on the street.

"R-Rob?"

"My parents are sending me to conversion therapy this summer, in Georgia."

Alex freezes. This can't happen, this can't happen. Not to Rob, not to Rob. This only happens in films, this only happens to the tragic gay character on those trashy TV shows.

"What?"

Rob's chin wobbles and he looks away, "we're not rich and they're paying so fucking much. Alex, it's not going to work, that shit doesn't work! I've tried to tell them they're just throwing away thousands, but they won't listen. They won't- fuck, it's so much money!"

Alex tries to reach out a hand, he wants to hold his face, kiss him tenderly, tell him it'll be okay. He wants to tell him that they can run away, they can leave Brownsville, they'll work all this out. But Rob smacks his hand away.

"This is your fucking fault. You had to go ape-shit, beat up that guy. Guess what, my parents were called too! You had to kiss me in the middle of the corridor, you had to be a fucking _idiot_!"

Alex goes cold, he steps forward, his own rage bubbling inside him now.

"Don't you dare blame me. You think I got off fine?"

He jabs a finger at his face, pulls up his shirt so that Rob can see the bruises Pace punched into his stomach last night, while calling him a fag, while saying he was just like his whore of a mother. Oh yeah, Rob's the _only_ one who got hurt.

"He broke three of my ribs when he found out I kissed you, don't think you're the only one that's suffering!"

Rob snarls at Alex, his fist clenches, "you brought that on yourself when you beat that guy up, I didn't. I hope you fucking remember me when my family get evicted, or just when I'm dead. You know people there are nine times more likely to kill themselves? Tell me, you're so smart, what are my odds?"

"Fuck off, your parents send you to some camp to shock you out of being gay, my foster dad breaks my ribs once a week. Don't play the pity card with me."

"At least you're bi! You can like girls, you can pretend you're not like me!"

Alex feels the urge to slap him, or grab his hair, or kick him in the shin, "I don't like girls, I like you! I don't fucking control who I like! I can't help it!"

Rob closes his eyes, shakes his head slowly and turns away from Alex, walking back down the path.

"I'll see you in the fall. Maybe."

* * *

"Hugh Knox?"

Alex fiddles with the cable of the phone, takes a deep breath.

"It's Alex. I- Tell me more about this family."

* * *

He tells Marco the day before he's set to leave. He can barely walk. Pace beat him up last night, slammed his head into the wall, kicked him until he'd puked, left him with so many bruises, he has to wear a hoodie on this 103 degree day.

He goes into the bodega, the bell tinkles, the breeze from the fan hits him. Eva sits on the pallet, her hair down, in jeans and a t-shirt.

"Hey, Alejandro. ¿Eres bueno?"

"I'm moving. My social worker's putting me in a home in Virginia."

Marco's mouth falls open, Eva looks up at him with wide eyes, thumb frozen over her phone.

"I thought I'd tell you. I leave tomorrow."

Marco stands up and moves around the counter towards Alex, he pulls him into a tight hug and cups his face, much like an affectionate father or uncle.

"Well this is good! Ya no te golpearán más. Te extrañaremos ... Pero tal vez esto sea mejor, ¿verdad?"

 _You won't get beaten up anymore. Well miss you, but maybe this is better, right?_

Alex nods silently, turns to look at Eva, she's stood up, her phone sits forgotten on the pallet. Marco lets go of him and he walks towards her, pulls her into a tight, hug, the kind you give people you might not ever see again. Like you're trying to remember how they smell, how they feel. Eva smells like this place. Clean, like Nicaraguan cooking, spices and air freshener.

"Thanks for washing my hair that night. Fue especie de asqueroso."

 _It was sorta gross._

Eva shrugs and moves over on the pallet, making room for Alex. He sits down and Marco brings out his CD player from underneath the counter. He manages, this time, to get it working and he gives Alex and Eva a bottle of coke each while they listen to music and joke around.

Alex will miss them. It was no mistake, calling Marco 'Jefe', was pretty intentional. He knows all the things it can mean, he knows that it's a lot like calling him 'Dad', but it just feels right. It fits.

Pace leaves him alone that last night, he lets Alex pack his things in peace and only calls him a faggot once, when he's in the way of the bathroom door and is trying to get through it.

Alex covers his face with foundation the next morning in preparation for seeing Knox and hides the other bruises under his old, trustworthy hoodie. He knows the car journey will be long, so he's got books and things packed at the top of his bag in preparation. Maybe he'll be able to get through a few.

As for this family, The Washingtons, they're supposed to be kind. Knox wouldn't drive him halfway down the east coast if they were going to beat him, nevertheless, Knox has been a pretty poor judge of character so far. He doesn't know whether or not he can rely on his opinion of which potential foster carers are the best for Alex. Afterall, he'd liked Mr. Elliot.

All he can do is hope for the best. Marco had said something yesterday about praying for him, which was sweet, but Alex doesn't believe in God. He's really just flying by the seat of his pants, trying to make the best of his situation. Maybe in this place, things will work out.


	39. Chapter 38

**Sorry!**

 **Okay, so what I've been doing:**

 **You know the chapter about Mr. Elliot I posted a few months back? Basically, I wasn't super happy with how I'd done it, so I've written an alternate ending in which Alex doesn't call his social worker and he's forced to stay with Mr. Elliot. It's very long, (and dark) I'll probably post it in increments.**

 **Love you guys! XX**

 **Trigger warnings: Homophobia, hospitals, talk of suicide and overdoses.**

The night was cold against the exposed skin of his face and hands when he stepped out of his dad's car. The car door was slammed behind him and he shouldered his bag, taking a steadying breath.

 _Calm down, John, think of Martha, think of Mary and James._

He stepped over the threshold of his house, which he hadn't been back to in nearly a fortnight, but didn't have time to look around at his home before something had barrelled straight into his stomach. Something about four foot eight, with a curly brown fringe, freckled, wearing a Tinkerbell nightie.

"Jack! Oh my gosh! I've missed you!"

He cast his bag aside sloppily, fell to his knees and engulfed her in a tight, smothering hug. He cupped the back of her head and breathed in her scent of bubble bath and those strawberry candies she wasn't supposed to eat but bought with her friends after school anyway. Her own little bit of rebellion, she wasn't so different to John.

"God, Martha, I've missed you too."

It was funny, how she still said 'gosh' but he had no qualms about saying 'God'. The differences between them were small but telling, she probably still tiptoed around her father's bad temper, made sure to be quiet and respectful in church every Sunday, kneel down at night to say her prayers. John had... John had somewhat lapsed.

"Are you back for good? Please say you're back for good!"

John broke away slightly and threw a glance at his father, who returned the stare sternly, with a brief nod.

"Yeah, yeah. Back for good."

Martha pressed herself back into his shoulder, her small arms wrapped around his middle, playing with the fur of his collar.

"Are Mary and James asleep?"

Martha nodded and straightened up, staring at him like she was drinking in the sight of her brother with large, dark eyes. God, he hadn't seen her in far too long. He'd missed her, so goddamn much.

He could see, in his peripheral vision, his father picking up his bag and moving towards the stairs, but he couldn't tear his gaze from his little sister. She took his hand and led him into the kitchen. On the table lay an open book, obviously Martha's, and a mug of hot chocolate. John went to the fridge and busied himself with pouring a glass of orange juice while Martha resumed her seat at the table.

"Is Dad mad at you? He seemed mad earlier."

John winced at the thought of his siblings being subjected to their dad's wrath, despite the fact that it was John who the real rage was directed at. They didn't deserve all that, they shouldn't have to be involved.

"Yeah, just a bit. Don't worry about it though."

Martha leant forward on her elbows, watching him. She blew some hair from her face in such an endearingly childish manner, John's heart swelled.

"Is it because you're... _Gay_?"

She still whispered the word, like it was a swear, despite the emptiness of the room. Despite the fact that their dad was on the other side of the wall. He supposed they'd all grown up with a fear of speaking their minds even in private places. They'd all been taught that God could hear them, no matter where they were.

"Yeah, I guess. Among other things."

"I don't get it. Why don't you just not be... _Gay_? You should just like girls instead. Like Henry."

John winced and pulled himself up onto the kitchen counter. Hearing that from his own sister's mouth, despite her youth and lack of desire to offend him, it, well, it stung. Henry was, in his father's eyes, the epitome of what a son _should_ be. He was fluent in French _and_ Spanish, attended an elite college, had graduated with honours and most importantly, dated women.

"It doesn't work like that, Martha. I can't decide whether I'm gay or not. Like... You didn't decide to have brown hair."

Martha thought for a moment, shrugged, "but I can dye my hair. I can change if I want. Why not you?"

John laughed a little and gave a shrug of his own, "well, sure. I could pretend my hair was naturally ginger," Martha giggled a little but he pressed on, "but that wouldn't be me, you know? My hair will always be black naturally. Doesn't matter what I do to it. If I dyed it ginger, I'd only be covering up what I really was. X'cept... it's okay that people dye their hair, not really that they hide who they are. I dunno, it's hard to put into words."

Martha nodded slowly and took another sip of her drink, watching him over the rim. When she put her mug down, she had a little moustache of milk foam.

"Like how in Frozen, Elsa has those superpowers she can't control, and she spends her whole life trying to hide them, but then she just decides she doesn't care what people think about her."

John laughed a little at this analogy and nodded, "yeah, gay superpowers. I like that."

Martha giggled and just then, in what had to be some of the worst timing John had ever experienced, their dad walked in.

"Martha, I think it's time you go to bed."

She groaned at this and shot John a beseeching look, pouting in annoyance.

"Come on, dad! It's only like nine!"

She withered slightly under the glare he sent her at this and flicked his head in the direction of the door. Martha slid her book off the table, posture a little defeated and slunk out of the room rather morosely. John spun around to glare at his dad, he shouldn't be taking out his anger on her, he could at least send her out nicely if he wanted to shout at him. As soon as her footsteps reached the upstairs landing however, John's dad turned to face him furiously.

"John, I don't want you talking to her about things like that."

John groaned, ran a hand through his hair in frustration. The old line. His dad would do his damnedest to turn his son straight, but in the event of that failing, John, at the very least, wouldn't 'corrupt' his siblings.

"Sure, I won't teach her respect and acceptance. Sorry about that."

His dad took a step closer and John groaned again. He wasn't up for another one of these boring arguments, they only got ugly, they only ended up in yelling.

"You won't teach her respect and acceptance for sin, John!"

John saw red for a moment, his fists clenched, his jaw tightened. Sin? Fucking sin? How could his dad use that argument against him, invoke beliefs of a fucking imaginary God people were delusional for worshipping.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Dad, if God even exists, I'm sure as hell irredeemable to him, I'm irredeemable to _you_! So why even bother?"

His father looked, just for a moment, as though he'd quite like to hit him again. Indeed, John actually flinched back marginally, half expecting the sting across his cheek and the sharp flash of pain. It didn't come though, just a torrent of hissed, angry words.

"John, I think I made myself clear last time, when I told you not to speak to me like that. Not to speak about _The Lord_ like that."

John took a step forward, scowling, straightening his posture. He was as tall as his dad, as strong, as _livid._

"Yeah, how did you make yourself clear again? Oh yeah, you hit me."

Something like guilt flashed across the man's eyes for a moment and he shook his head slowly, his fists were still tightly clenched, knuckle bones stretching out from beneath his skin.

"John, I... Look, I regret doing that, but you forced my hand. You should've known better than speaking like that to me."

He sighed, too desensitised to being spoken to like this to feel much anger at his father. Whatever, his dad could pass off hitting him, but not John 'taking the Lord's name in vain'.

"Whatever, I'm going to bed."

His father watched him with narrowed eyes as he left the room. He didn't try to stop him, or say anything more to his son, but his brows were furrowed and he stood there in the room, almost statue like. A sculpture of disappointment, of angry resignation. John was too tired to care very much.

* * *

Alex didn't have any visitors until around three o'clock the next day. He saw Warren for the second time that morning, gave her short, rather non-descriptive answers. It wasn't that he didn't like her, he thought he did, just that he had yet to warm to the idea of talking about the inner machinations and workings of his feelings.

He was finishing off the Kafka book Lafayette had brought him when there was the sound of footsteps outside his door and the buttons on the lock being pushed. Either a nurse, or visitors. Then, when the door suddenly opened, Gilbert strode in.

He was dressed rather hastier than usual. A sweater and jeans, hair a little messy, dark smears beneath his eyes. He barely smiled at Alexander before he sat down, holding his face in his hands.

"John's gone back to live with his dad."

Alex dropped the book he was holding, frozen. His eyes widened slowly, as though his brain had only marginally processed the full gravity of the truth Lafayette had told him.

"What?"

Lafayette ran a hand through his unkempt hair. His finger caught on a tangle and he winced, withdrawing them. He hadn't redone his hair that morning, had been too preoccupied with John to care much about his appearance. He'd deliberated telling Alex for some time that morning, maybe he could sort the situation out before he had to tell his brother? Maybe John would see sense? Alex had enough happening in his life to be stressing over something else, yet he couldn't keep this from him. This was _John_ they were talking about, the teenager who made Alex the happiest Lafayette had ever seen him.

"Hercules texted me last night. He came round to his place and..." he paused, possibly considering his wording, "Il a exigé... that John came with him."

Alex groaned and leant his head back to rest on his headboard, groaning. This was... This was the worst possible thing that could have happened at the moment. They were all going through so much crap, the last thing John needed was to go back to a toxic, dysfunctional home.

"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Shit. How did this happen? Why did John go?"

Gilbert sighed heavily and shrugged, "Hercules said he was talking about his siblings. You know, Mary, Martha and James."

John's siblings. Of course. He almost never shut up about them to Alex, always showing him photos, always recounting stories of fun times they'd had. Of course the thought of their loneliness would be the last straw, of course that'd be the thing to convince him to go back.

"Has he texted you? Do you know if he's okay?"

Gilbert shook his head and sprawled back on his chair, one foot resting across his thigh, his eyes closed; exhausted.

"I've tried calling him, but he didn't pick up," he opened one eye and watched Alex for a moment. His gaze softened from the tense stress it had held moments prior.

"I'm... I'm sorry about this. You shouldn't have to deal with this. Not right now."

Alex shrugged, watching a plane go by, high, high up out the window. Sure, he supposed he could have done with some peace at the moment, would have done him some good, but the last things currently on his mind were the effects this situation would have on him. It was John he was worried about.

"I'm not in John's situation, it's not me I'm worried about."

Lafayette frowned at this. Alex's situation was just as dire as John's, he privately thought. Just because Alex wasn't in immediate danger from somebody else didn't mean that Gilbert shouldn't worry about him.

"I'll try calling him again now. Maybe he'll pick up."

Alex groaned into his hands and nodded, pictures of John being hit by his dad, being screamed at, being hurt, flashing through his mind. He thought of what people like Pace and Mr. Johnson had done to him. Surely John's dad wasn't as bad as they'd been? He'd never break his son's ribs or send him to the ER, would he?

"He won't hurt John again, will he?"

Lafayette shook his head, the shrugged.

"At least not badly. What happened, in all fairness, was an... how do you say it, anonamy? ano-ana-"

"An anomaly, yeah, I get you."

Lafayette nodded and then jumped as John's voice rang out through the phone.

"Hey, Laf, are you with Alex?"

Lafayette fought back a grin, winked at Alex, who blushed and leant back in his chair.

"Yeah, I am, but are you okay? You're at home, aren't you?"

There was a heavy sigh from his end and Alexander took his lip between his teeth, rolling back and forwards, eyebrows creased together fearfully.

"Yeah, yeah, I am. I'm okay too, I'm fine."

Alexander's posture relaxed somewhat at the honesty in John's voice, normally, when he lied, it was obvious in the way he spoke rather than his body language or expressions. But he couldn't hear the lie here, he just sounded a little tired.

"Can I talk to Alex?"

Lafayette handed his friend the phone and Alexander took it hurriedly, speaking quickly down the phone to his friend, still panicked despite John's previous reassurances.

"John, you're okay? He hasn't hit you? Why did you go? When can I see you?"

"Alex, I'm okay, seriously, please, don't worry. He's not done anything. It's been fine. I just... He came last night, he was angry, he wanted me to come home. My siblings missed me, I couldn't... I had to see them."

Alex ran a hand through his hair, nodded, his eyes closed. He was looking better by the day, pinker cheeked, less malnourished, but the anxiety and wariness stamped into his features seemed to set him back a day or two. Lafayette felt his chest tighten, like a rope inside it was being pulled.

"When can I see you?"

Alexander repeated the question, his voice quiet, as though he was scared of what the answer might be.

"I- I'm gonna have to ask my dad. I won't be able to say where I'm going though... He knows we've been on a date."

Alexander closed his eyes, breathed deep and nodded. He just wanted to see John, wanted to hold him, be held by him. He'd wait, but he couldn't for very long.

"Okay, okay, that's cool. Just try to come," Alex breathed. He was, despite all the evidence suggesting that John was okay, still worried. Maybe he was fine now, but what happened if he and his dad got in another argument? Would he hit him again? Harder this time?

"I will, I'll probably be here today. I'll try as hard as I can."'

Alex nodded and then, when John spoke again, the smile was apparent in his voice.

"Te extrañare, cariño."

 _I'll miss you, baby._

Alexander laughed and leant his head back against the headboard, his eyes bright.

"Ídem, cariño."

 _Ditto, baby._

The call ended and Alex handed Lafayette back his phone, a smile still playing on his lips. It was a little smug, a little flustered. Lafayette raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, cariño," he pretended to swoon like a Victorian lady, "I love you, cariño. Will you marry me, cariño?"

Alexander scoffed and rolled his eyes, feigning incredulity and annoyance to disguise the blush creeping across his face.

"Are you actually twelve years old, Laf? Seriously?"

"You guys are just so _soppy_."

Alex rolled his eyes. They were brighter than they'd been last week, shiny in a warm, alive way, rather than glassy.

"It's ironic, God, you should know me better than thinking I'd seriously call someone 'baby'. Besides, different connotations in Spanish. It's less cheesy."

Lafayette laughed and shrugged, holding up his hands defensively.

"I'm French, I know about these things. I can tell you're absolutely love-sick, don't deny it."

George and Martha visited about an hour and a half after Lafayette arrived. The former was easing his way back into normal work hours, taking calls more and spending an increasing number of hours shut up in the study. Martha had been working from home, had gone grocery shopping earlier.

When they arrived, Lafayette thought it'd probably be best he left. He'd been there for over and an hour and he had a sneaking suspicion that Martha and George knew something that he didn't, something they were anxious to discuss with Alex.

He hugged his foster brother goodbye and pulled out his phone to text Hercules. He didn't particularly want to go back to his own house, not alone, anyway. Hercules would understand. Hercules always did.

* * *

Alex hadn't spoken to Martha and George alone for a few days. In all honesty, he'd been avoiding it. He knew they had been told that he'd tried to drink iodine, that he was seeing a therapist and was still a danger to himself. He didn't want to see the look on their faces, the pain he'd caused them. They didn't deserve it. _He_ didn't deserve it, all this worry on his behalf, he could do without having people to please.

Martha and George were sat in the two chairs at the end of his bed, while Alex was sat, one leg curled up to his chest, the other stretched out in front of him.

"Hey, we thought we'd drop in, just to, well, see how you were and talk about one or two things that have come up," Martha smiled as she spoke, and though it was soft and tender, Alexander couldn't help but detect some concern in the action.

"Oh, yeah. Okay."

Alex tried to make eye-contact with his foster parents, nodding and twisting his bedclothes beneath his fingers where he sat. He didn't want to be that meek, anxious kid he'd presented to them thus far. That wasn't who he really was. If he could act less like a complete wimp now, maybe this conversation would be easier.

"Well," Martha started, glancing at George, a look passed between them, "I suppose we should address this, we spoke to Dr. Hosack and he talked about an incident recently with some iodine."

Alex nodded, eye-contact now seemed impossible. He stared ahead at the wall instead, trying to keep his face passive and stoic. He was smooth, he was a statue, water off a duck's back. Remember this, Alex, you've been through worse.

"Yeah. Well?"

George glanced at Martha, Alex could see the silent communication in their gaze. He wanted to scream at them, yell that he could see all this. They could talk about him to his face, they could say what they were thinking. He'd handled worse than whatever they could throw at them.

"They don't think your stay here is benefiting you mentally as well as they'd like. The psychiatrist you've seen, Warren, I think, said she would prescribe a combination of medication and therapy, but was hesitant about the former."

Alex sighed, leant back on his hands and stared up at the ceiling. He could feel their concerned gazes, well-meaning but unwelcome and intrusive, boring into him. Was he really about to have this conversation?

"I'm not going to OD again. That won't be problem."

George frowned, seemingly a little confused, "I don't know if-"

"I get it. I tried to three days ago. But I don't want to die."

Martha reached forward gently, took his hand in hers. It was smooth, but hard worked, not like Mr. Elliot's. His had been soft, like he'd never worked them much harder than typing or holding a pen. Not surprising, as he'd employed Danna to do everything for him.

"We'll talk to them, just know that we're trying to do the best for you."

Alex smiled slightly, shook his hair from his face. He looked healthier now, with his hair washed, some colour back in his cheeks. Still skinny, but not emaciated.

"I'm not exactly enjoying myself here, I'll be fine taking meds and doing therapy for a little while. I'd really rather leave here."

He hated not being able to look after himself. He couldn't even shower with someone outside the door waiting for him. Apparently, he could hang himself with the shower curtain or something, so he had to be supervised. Like he was in one of those prisons where they handcuffed inmates to the shower. He couldn't make his own food, walk around and go in and out as he pleased.

He just didn't like being all cooped up, he was used to being left to his own devices. He was used to being forgotten about, allowed to wander the streets as he liked, come back when the sky was just breaking into dawn or when the clouds had obscured any traces of a moon from the sky.

He didn't like being in anybody else's care but his own.

Martha squeezed his hand gently, it was warm and affectionate, yet the nail polish that was usually so carefully applied to her fingernails was chipped and faded. As though she hadn't found the time for anything like painting her nails, anything but worrying about Alex. Alexander wished they would just leave him alone. He cared for them, he really did, but it just did irritate him when everyone treated him like porcelain.

"I understand, I know you'd rather be at home. We'd rather you there too, we just have to wait until you're ready, and that's up to the doctors. Though, we'll talk to Hosack about what you said."

Alex nodded, stared at the clock above Martha's head. It was nearing half past twelve. Would John come at all today? Eliza? Hercules? _John?_

"If I'm going on meds, do I need to see Warren to get a diagnosis? Isn't that how that works?"

George's eyebrows furrowed in thought for a moment, "it depends on what they're officially giving them for, I assume. You're file reads that you've been diagnosed with GAD and panic disorder, so they might prescribe something for that."

Alex nodded, he didn't really mind that George was talking about all this with such frankness. He was used to having his mental state picked apart rather cruelly by foster parents, yet he'd grown tired of the sugar-coated, hesitant approach Lafayette tended to take when talking about the subject.

The conversation went from there, Alex not exactly wanting them to leave, but anxious for John to arrive. He was starting to see a light at the end of the tunnel, however. It seemed as though he was nearing release from the hospital. They'd probably finally figured out that being here wasn't doing wonders from his fear and hatred of isolation, that attempting to drink iodine was probably a good indicator that something needed to change.

He might even make it out by John's birthday.

This thought stayed with him long after Martha, George and Lafayette left. It lingered in the forefront of his mind as he talked with Warren later that afternoon. She came often, normally for anywhere between forty-five minutes and an hour, though Alex didn't really like talking to her.

"So, do you want to talk a bit more about your friends, then? The ones that visit you?"

Alex shrugged, "I guess. Uh, there's John, Lafayette and Hercules."

Warren smiled, "I've noticed you keep looking at the clock. Are you waiting for one of them."

Alex blushed slightly, shrugged, "yeah. I mean, John said he might come around today. It's getting sort of late, though."

Warren nodded, scribbled something down in her notebook.

"What did you just write?"

He didn't let her take a note without knowing what it said, hated the idea of her observing him like some interesting science experiment, studying him.

"Just that you seem to anticipate your friends' visits rather than dread them," she smiled kindly, lines around her eyes wrinkling ever so slightly.

"I think that would be a... Fair assumption."

* * *

John didn't visit that night, nor the next. He, Lafayette and Hercules were back at school, but Alex would think they'd still have an hour or so to spare, come see him. He supposes they're busy.

Martha drops in every day, if only for fifteen minutes or so. She and George are both back at work, part-time at least. Alex is more comfortable with her than he ever has been. He'd originally seen her as warm, kind and gentle, but she can also be witty. He'd known she was intelligent, but their conversations had never been more than a joke or two, brief pleasantries and kind words. It was sort of nice to actually talk to her about the things he was interested in.

His release date was coming closer and closer. Incidentally, it was the same date as John's birthday. October the twenty-eighth. Over the past few weeks, he'd noticed himself gaining weight. His ribs didn't jut out alarmingly anymore, his face wasn't hollow with hunger. Though he was still on the skinny side, sharp hip bones and bony fingers, he was at least on the way to healthy. That was more than he'd been able to say in years.

He found himself lonely, for the first time in months. Since he'd 'broken up with' Rob months ago, he'd not missed anyone like he now missed John. Lafayette and Hercules too. He finished all his books in just two days, spent the rest of his time curled up in bed.

He wasn't depressed, exactly, just a little numb. Doing nothing turned out to be easier than feeling shit, he didn't feel hollow when he was asleep, he didn't long for his razor blade when he could drown out everything around him, let himself go stoic.

Marian shot him looks of concern when she came in to give him breakfast every morning, asked him often whether he was okay or not. Alex always said he was fine, always smiled back and ate the food given to him without complaint. It's not like he wasn't fine, just a little lonely.

He next saw John the day before his birthday.

It had been a slow day, little had happened outside the usual visit from Warren and a quick physical from Marian. It was nearing five o'clock and he'd resigned himself to the fact that his last day here would be spent alone. Not that he minded, he was sure his friends had other things to be doing.

Until John walked into his room.

Alex was on his feet immediately, running at his friend, jumping into his arms and wrapping his legs around his waist. He hung off John, his face buried in his shoulder like a koala, laughing.

"Alex, I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

Alex shook his head into his shoulder, still grinning broadly. He let his feet find ground again and smiled broadly up at the teenager, every inch of his face elated.

"You're here now, that's what matters."

John grinned, pressed a quick kiss to the highest point of his cheekbone and shrugged off his bag, unzipping it and pulling out a bag of popcorn.

"I have popcorn, my laptop and Netflix. Do you wanna watch something?"

Alex has missed this, missed just simply hanging out. The last person he did this with, in a romantic sense rather than a platonic one, was Rob, and they didn't end well. But then, they never really had what Alex thought he had with John. Alex has never felt this complete before, never felt this understood.

As a response, he leant in and pressed his lips to John's, cupping the teenager's jaw and teasing his tongue over his lips. John eagerly reciprocated, placing a hand on his thigh and learning in further, backing Alex up against the wall. He felt the teenager stiffen slightly under him, though he didn't attempt to move away. Alex's hand came down from John's cheek and guided his hand off his thigh, up to his waist. He was more comfortable with it there, less reminded of Mr. Elliot.

Eventually, they broke apart, out of breath, grinning a little sheepishly, all flushed cheeks and pink lips.

"Popcorn?"

John held the bag between them, grinning at his friend, the sudden offer so random and unexpected that Alex burst out laughing.

"You're ridiculous!"

John stuck his tongue out at him and tossed a piece of popcorn into the air, catching it in his mouth. He grinned at Alex and held the bag of popcorn out to him.

"Give it a go."

Alex rolled his eyes, this was utterly insane, and took a piece of popcorn. He tossed it into the air, tilted his head back and caught it in his mouth.

"Nice. What you wanna watch?"

Alex shrugged, leant onto his elbows and gently nudged John's shoulder with his head

"Something funny."

John opened Netflix, put on _The Office_ and rested his head in Alex's lap. He would be sixteen tomorrow. He didn't feel any different yet, not really. He didn't feel more mature, more like he had everything figured out. He was still sort of lost.

But now, having Alex here, that helped.


	40. Note about Mr Elliot prequel

**Hello! I'm sorry to make this look like I'm updating, even though this isn't that... But, I have news.**

 **I'm sure you all remember the prequel chapter about Mr. Elliot and Alexander. Well, I wasn't really happy with how I did it. There were a lot of things I'd have liked to include, a lot of characters that needed developing and things I left unsaid.**

 **Basically, what I'm getting at here is that I've written an alternate chapter. If any of you have read** ** _Voiceless Symphonies_** **on AO3, you might know that the author did and alternate ending about Jefferson. Think of this as that.**

 **Basically, it's what would have happened if I'd been feeling particularly mean and horrible when I was writing the real prequel. It's very long, so I'll be publishing it separately from this story, but I'll warn you, it might have to be rated T+ or M, it's quite dark and deals with some pretty touchy subjects.**

 **The summary is basically; what if Alexander had never called his social worker to tell him about Mr. Elliot? What if he'd never escaped?**

 **I'm also writing something about Mrs. Elliot's past, how she met Mr. Elliot and their relationship. It's super cool, I'm very excited!**

 **I'll also be publishing this in chapters, because as of now it's over 100k words.**

 **Also, I'd like to say thanks to L.E-Rae. She's been helping me with writer's block, with ideas and with writing itself. She's pretty fucking incredible. If you haven't checked out her stories already, do!**

 **Basically, review and tell me what you think. Also, if you have any ideas or things you'd like to see, tell me, I'll see what I think/ can do.**


	41. Chapter 39

**Hey. It's been a while. I know. Expect more stuff soon.**

 **Too all the people just starting to read this, I have to say thank you and sorry. It gets better.**

 **Also, I don't think most of you know I'm British, I am! Immigrant born Londoner. That sort of makes me feel better about my abilities of writing Americans, I don't know, I try. For that reviewer that asked about James' accent, I'll just say that he talks like those two morning presenters on BBC news, Naga and Dan. You know them if you're English.**

 **The alternate universe story is going to be published soon. It'll probably be an M, but don't expect smut, I don't write that shit. I honestly think it's suitable for 13 plus, but to be safe, it's going to go past a T. I'll let you all know when it's published.**

 **This chapter's okay. I could have spent more time on it, but I felt super bad about not updating. I've introduced someone new though...**

 **Trigger warnings (this chapter's light): Hospitals, mention of suicide, mention of vaguely unhealthy relationship/ breakup, homophobia.**

 **By the way, if you're Croatian, we're declaring war on you.**

* * *

John Laurens' birthday presents were, as usual, many. Having a large number of siblings and being a popular, well-liked guy at school helped. He woke up to loads of messages on snapchat and instagram, people wishing him happy birthday and, as per the time honoured tradition, posting their ugliest photos of him along with a nice message about how they knew each other.

As for celebrations and presents with family, well, rich relatives and doting grandparents had surprised him with toys and sneakers as a kid, but began to run out of ideas and motivation for gifts as he got older.

See, it was the worst best-kept Laurens family secret that the second-oldest son of Henry Laurens was gay. Wealthy, conservative uncles, aunts and family friends began to keep their distance, what might have been video games and new nikes when he was thirteen became a book about the _true Christian way of life and the path God has planned for you_ when he was sixteen.

However, there were the anomalies. An estranged liberal cousin who'd sent him fifty dollars for his fifteenth and some _beats by dre_ headphones this year. His mother, who'd never seemed to mind the way her son's sexuality was swaying, sending him the books he'd added to his Amazon wish-list that summer. There were plans to visit her this Christmas. She lived down in South Carolina alone with her dogs, each time John visited, he could never shake the feeling that he might be happier there.

But now, there was Alexander. There'd always been Lafayette and Hercules to stop him leaving and now, the bond that tied him to this place had never been stronger.

He remembers his fifteenth birthday. A year ago, he'd been a mess. He'd stopped hanging around with Lafayette and Hercules, found himself a new crowd of friends that made him feel like he was rebelling. There was Francis, John had trailed behind him like an eager puppy, he'd been desperate some reason to not hate the fact that he only liked boys. He'd drank a lot on his fifteenth, stayed over at Francis' house as his parents hadn't been home.

He'd not made very good decisions that year, maybe Francis moving was a good thing. If he was still here today, John wasn't entirely sure they'd still be...

From his siblings there were home-made, glitter-streaked cards and candy. From Henry there was a pair of burgundy leather vans and from his girlfriend a small bracelet she'd picked up in Ibiza recently.

Then, from his father, two things. The first was a set of novels, two in French and one in Spanish. This, to John, was a thoughtful gift. Though, his father had always been pushy in his academic achievements, John had a vivid memory from when he was ten of the man taping up John's eighty-five percent French test beside Henry's ninety-seven one on the fridge.

The second was a card. John opened it expecting a message from his mother or a few hollow platitudes from his father on how, despite the difficulties they'd gone through in their relationship as father and son, the man still maintained hope that John would 'find his way'.

No such luck. It was, instead, an invitation.

John looked up from where he was sat on the sofa of their cold living room, an eyebrow cocked.

"Philip Schuyler's fundraising gala? Dad, I don't wanna go to that."

His father forced a smile, "it'll be an opportunity to meet the upcoming politicians and figures of the state. John Lee will be there, the Schuylers of course. Their daughters are your age, of a good family. Pretty, supposedly. You would know, Elizabeth is in your year?"

John nodded tersely, laid the invitation on top of the just-opened books in front of him. He didn't want to go to some gala, where Eliza would be just as awkward as him, sitting in the corner drinking fruit punch and shaking the clammy hands of slimy politicians.

They ate breakfast after opening John's presents. Mary and Martha lightening the mood of the table with jokes and stories of adventures at school, John's father smiling along, all the while maintaining a stony silence in the direction of his son.

John needed to get out of there.

He finished breakfast quickly, ignoring Martha's insistence of cleaning his plate herself.

"Jack, come on, it's your birthday, I'll do it!"

Half out of his seat already, he responded, "it's chill. I'll do it."

John pulled on a coat and shoes in his bedroom, unplugged his phone and pocketed it. Alexander would be getting out of hospital today, and Lafayette had texted him that morning about coming to his place for nine thirty so they could go and get Alex together.

John nodded to his father as he passed him in the hallway, stuffing his hair into a beanie and simultaneously trying to get his bus pass and lip-balm out of his pocket. He waved goodbye to Mary and Martha, making hot chocolate in the kitchen, as he left.

The cold hit him like a punch in the face. He'd always hated that his birthday was in the winter. John was a summer sort of person naturally, as a kid he'd always wished to have outdoor parties on his birthdays and now, he'd just rather it be warm and sunny.

John took the bus three stops to the main road nearest Lafayette's house. Hercules would already be there, they'd hang out for a little while before picking up Alex, then hopefully get lunch and spend a quiet, relaxing day before school on Monday.

Lafayette answered the door in a whirlwind of laughter and hugs. He held John tightly for a few seconds before exclaiming loudly about the cold and ushering him in.

"Putain, il fait froid! Entres, Maman a fait des crêpes pour nous!"

John grinned, stepped into the warmth of the Washington household and made his way to the living room.

"Hey," Hercules stood up to greet him and pulled him into a tight hug, "happy birthday bro, you're sixteen! Holy hell!"

John hugged him back, slapped him on the exceeding broad shoulder and stepped towards the lit fireplace, beginning to warm his hands.

As his back was turned, Lafayette had pulled something out from beneath a cushion on the sofa, holding it in his arms with a grin on his face. It was a present, about the shape of a school textbook, but by volume much bigger, wrapped in shiny green paper.

"Hey, big guy, wanna open your present?"

John laughed, took the item from Lafayette's arms and tested its weight curiously.

"C'est lourd, non?"

Lafayette shrugged, held up his hands in a 'guess you'll find out' sort of motion. John tore off the wrapping paper.

The first thing that fell into his hands was a card. He opened this first, a grin spreading across his face as he pulled it from the envelope.

It was evidently homemade, assembled by Lafayette and Hercules on one of their laptops. The card was a collage of photos of the four of them, snapchat streaks and instagram posts, vine quotes squeezed into every available white space. The thing was a mess. An amazingly chaotic mess.

There was the screenshot of one of Lafayette's stories, John with his head on Alex's lap. They were laughing at something on John's phone, wide grins spread across their faces. Another was one of those awfully ugly selfies John sent to Hercules as a joke, he was sat up in bed, making a double chin. The photo was captioned, 'love ya bro'.

"You guys are fucking idiots," he laughed, and simultaneously pulled them both into a hug.

The card had three long messages squeezed into the space, each in a different colour pen. One was from Lafayette, one from Hercules and the last from Alexander. The inside of the card was decorated, where there was room, with doodles of memes and inside jokes.

John looked down at the gift. A cardboard box sealed with a brightly coloured strip of tape. He looked up at Lafayette, grinned, and peeled off the tape. Inside the box was three things.

The first was a jacket. Made of black denim, he initially noticed nothing special about it. Then, John pulled it from the box. The back of the jacket was covered in patches, there had to be at least fifteen decorating the shoulders, all the way to the end of the material. They were homemade, some quoted inside jokes the four of them shared, some of them said things like 'queer power', one of them, evidently designed by Lafayette, read 'j'en ai marre des criminels en uniforme'. I am fed up with criminals in uniform. A sort of catchphrase he was known to throw out often, even having a t-shirt emblazoned with the words.

Hercules grinned at him, "I found this at the goodwill, then I went around our year. Turns out 'Liza's pretty good with a sewing machine too, so we worked on it together. A couple youtube tutorials and some late night brainstorming led to this."

John still couldn't take his eyes off the jacket. Hercules' aspirations as a designer had manifested themselves in incredible ways before, but never had he made something so personal, so thoughtful, so goddamn funny.

"Shit, Herc, Laf, this is fucking insane. How long did this take you?"

Hercules shrugged, "with some late-nighters, a few weeks?"

John laughed in disbelief, pulled a hand through his hair and turned his attention to the next item in the box. This one was obviously from Lafayette. It was a large black tub, the signature _Lush_ design. Turning it over, he read the product description.

"Coconut mask for naturally curly hair?"

Lafayette grinned, "you've broken more combs than I can remember, I had to stop you struggling with that mess."

John ran a hand through his hair and, yes, his fingers met a tangle. Sheepishly, he shrugged and opened the tub. It did, admittedly, smell really good.

The last item was a book. John assumed this was from Alexander. The book was a worn copy of _The Catcher In The Rye._ John frowned, opened the frayed cover and read the note penned under the rubric on the title page.

 _I read this first in Spanish when I was fourteen. This is a copy I 'borrowed' from my school library last year. Thankfully, in English. You mentioned once that you'd never read it, which of course I felt morally obliged to correct. I re-read it this week and have written in some notes along the way, adding to things I hope you enjoy. I know this is a little shitty, and there's something better coming, but I think you'll like this in the meantime._

John flipped through the pages and smiled at the dozens of notes Alexander had crammed into the margins. There were one or two doodles, and beside one paragraph he'd penned, 'reminds me of you'.

"Pretty cool, right?"

John looked up at Hercules, who was grinning at the slightly awed expression on his friend's face.

"When did he do this?"

Lafayette shrugged, "he asked me to bring it to him earlier this week, Marian mentioned he'd stayed up late working on it."

John nodded, turned the book over in his hands and took in the scratched out stamp of a school library on the back cover. Alex must have scribbled out the name of his school once he'd decided he'd not be returning it. It was incredible to see something so personally attached to Alex like this. Each scribble in old, black ink was from when he was just fourteen. John could imagine him, a younger face and shorter hair, slipping this into his school bag and surreptitiously exiting the library.

"When are they discharging him today?"

Lafayette checked his watch, "at ten to midday. We have some hours, we can eat breakfast and watch some TV, whatever you like. Apres que, tu peux voir ton copain!"

John laughed and smacked his friend hard on the shoulder. Happiness was bubbling up inside him like carbon in soda, he felt warm, like he was surrounded by people who loved him, people who didn't care who John kissed or went out with, well, only so far as to play wingmen.

Martha and George greeted him in the kitchen, both dressed in that way politicians do on the weekends. It was always strange to see George in anything but suits and ties and Martha in professional blazers and blouses.

They'd gotten him cologne, it had obviously cost a fair amount but there was no evidence they'd spent excessively, or that they'd tried to impress him or show off. No, Martha and George weren't like that. They didn't count every penny, but they knew money wasn't something to be taken for granted or to be splashed around.

"For all those dates you teenagers go on," Martha smiled, handing John the box. He laughed and threw Lafayette a glance, who coughed under his breath and threw out, "avec son fils adoptif."

 _With your foster son._

George's mouth seemed to twitch into a small smile, but it was gone before John could even be sure he'd seen it. He was again left wondering whether George has picked up enough French from his son to understand simple phrases, like the one he'd just uttered.

"This is great, thanks so much. My dad got me one last year, but then Charles Lee came in wearing it and, needless to say, I haven't opened that box again since."

Lafayette and Hercules laughed, though Martha and George merely smiled humourlessly, threw each other furtive glances lasting only a split second.

John glanced at his friends in the doorway behind him and then back at the two adults in front of them. He pulled them both into a hug, coming only up to George's shoulder but standing at least a head taller than Martha.

They ate brunch on the couch, watching TV. John didn't have a second spare to think about his father or his siblings, whether or not he can get out of going to this gala.

At eleven thirty, Martha called to them from the kitchen. They should get on their shoes and coats, Alex's discharge was imminent.

They all piled into the car, Lafayette held a coat under one arm for his brother and couldn't seem to sit still, jiggling his leg and fiddling with a curl.

Alexander stood in the hospital room, a duffel bag over one shoulder, tapping his foot impatiently. It was exactly ten to twelve, Marian had gone down to see is his foster family had come to pick him up. He heard the vague ding of the elevator at the end of the hallway and the sound of voices in the distance. Alex wasn't sure whether or not he should go out into the corridor, but fuck it. He gathered himself, swept his hair from his eyes and stepped into the hallway.

Someone had landed on top of him before he could even be sure the people outside were his foster family. A fluffy expanse of hair nudged his forehead and he knew instantly that it was Lafayette.

"Salut!"

The teenager laughed into the hug, "tu m'as manqué."

Alex stepped back, looked left to right, caught black curls and freckles before all he knew was warm chest and clean-smelling hoodie. John pulled him into a tight hug, lifted him about an inch of his feet, his face pressed into his hair. Underneath his hands, he could feel bone, but he was looking better than ever, his face a little pinker and his hair shinier.

"Happy birthday," Alex laughed, his hands held John's waist tightly, he momentarily forgot to maintain a platonic facade in front of George and Martha, it took every ounce of his willpower to prevent him from kissing John.

"Thanks for the book, it looks really cool."

Alex made a face, "it's a bit shit. I'm in the process of finding something better."

John shook his head earnestly, "seriously, it's amazing. I'm just glad I get to see you."

Alex smiles, his eyes scrunched up and his slight dimples appeared. God, John would never stop adoring that smile.

Behind them, Martha coughed.

"We were thinking about getting some celebratory lunch? You kids ready to leave?"

Alex laughed in a self-depreciative sort of way and pulled Martha into a hug. He breathed in perfume and the smell of the Washington's house. It felt sort of like home. He gave George one next. It lasted a few seconds less, a little awkward after the argument they still hadn't entirely resolved, but warm nonetheless.

He pulled Hercules into a hug last, but held on longer than either George or Martha.

"I missed you, Bro," Hercules laughed, slapped his back. Alex smiled, patted his shoulder and stepped back, looking around at the people around him for a moment with bright eyes.

They went to a nice café in the town centre. It wasn't exceptionally busy but there were enough people there that it didn't feel strange or quiet. George only had to leave the table once to make a call and Alex actually managed to eat more than half of his meal.

"So, your life of crime started at fourteen?" John joked, tilting his head at Alex and biting into his sandwich. Alex laughed, furrowed his eyebrows.

"Huh?"

"You 'borrowed' that book from your library."

Alex raised an eyebrow, "yes, an illustrious career of thievery. The FBI are still hunting me down."

John nodded seriously, "we're fucking Bonnie and Clyde."

Alex shook his head, his lips were fighting a smile, "nah. I'm Butch and you're Fabienne."

John clicked his tongue and sighed theatrically, "I don't know what you're referencing but I'll go with it."

Alex's jaw dropped, "you've never seen _Pulp Fiction_?

John shrugged sheepishly, "my father always said it wasn't Christian."

Alex laughed, "it's sure as hell not."

He turned back to his food and Lafayette then, said something in French too quick and clipped for John to catch completely and launched into a conversation separate from the one he'd just been having with John.

Then, his phone buzzed. John glanced down at it and read the text. Then he read it again. Then he refreshed the feed, wondering if he was hallucinating, then he read it again.

 _Francis (just now): Happy birthday. I'm in town again this week. Maybe we'll run into each other._

John set his phone down on the table, leant against his hand and closed his eyes. Francis. God, they'd not spoken in a year, who knew how he'd changed.

 _John (just now): How come you're in town?_

He waited, drumming his fingers against the table. Everyone at the table was far too preoccupied with talking and laughing to notice his sudden silence.

 _Francis (just now): Not happy to hear from me? My parents have shit to sort out with an old client. Lucky for me, I have the chance of running into you._

John's heart skipped a beat. Francis in town, Francis flirting, Francis wanting to spend time together.

 _John (just now): Are you suggesting we hang out?_

 _Francis (just now): Sure._

They had so much they needed to resolve, to get off their chests. John's first real heartbreak had been Francis, six months ago he'd have left this restaurant, sprinted to wherever Francis was staying and done practically anything for just one kiss.

 _John (just now): I think we should clear the air._

 _Francis (just now): I think you've probably gotten even cuter since I last saw you._

That was forward, even for him. Francis had always been the sort to take the lead, John had fucking idolised him, Francis had been perfectly aware of that, perfectly aware of how he could use that to his advantage.

 _John (just now): And less naive._

 _Francis (just now): Coffee, four o'clock tomorrow, old place?_

 _John (just now): Okay._

So those were the events that led to him sitting in the coffee shop he and Francis used to frequent, dressed a little nicer than he might usually, jittering with nerves. He needed to clear the air with Francis. He needed to get some things off his chest. Anyway, it was only polite he see him, if he was in town.

Then, he sees the familiar silhouette of Francis in the doorway.

He'd grown. He'd always been tall, but now, a year older than John and standing a few inches taller than him, he seemed so different. Francis was blond and fair, light eyelashes and golden streaked eyebrows that caught silver in the sunlight. He had a long face, with light grey eyes and a straight, slightly angled nose. He was conventionally attractive, like a Greek statue. Sure, in certain lights his face sometimes took on a sharp, aquiline sort of look but he was exactly the thing John was fated to fall for in his fourteenth summer.

"Jacky!"

He stood up, a smile stretched across his face as he laid eyes upon the teenager he hadn't seen in close to a year. Francis pulled him into a tight hug. He held it for a few seconds, smiling into John's hair.

Then, Francis took a step back and ran his eyes up and down John, he smiled as he reached his face and reached out a hand to pinch his cheek.

"I always loved those freckles of yours."

John blushed and sat down opposite his friend, drumming his fingers restlessly against the varnished wood table of the café.

"So you're sixteen now, kiddo."

Francis flashed him a smile and leant forward on his arms. Up close, his eyes were almost copper.

"Yup. Yesterday was the big day. Happy sweet sixteenth to me."

Francis laughed and pulled something out from beneath the table, a plastic bag.

"Which is why I got you something."

John took the bag is stunned silence and opened it, peering down into its contents. A scarf, striped mustard yellow and pale pink. It was soft and expensive looking, the kind of thing Lafayette would go wild for.

"Francis, this is-"

"Stylish, the best gift you've received so far?"

John cleared his throat, "too much. There was no need to-"

Francis cut him off, "of course there was! Jack, you were always so stubborn. Chill, don't be so high strung."

John lowered his eyes and Francis laid a hand over his relentlessly fiddling one.

"John, calm down, everything's okay."

John remembered when they dated. He'd been a Freshman, Francis had been a Sophomore. They'd started hanging out in the same circle, doing to the park and drinking cheap beer, saying dumb, rebellious things. Francis had kissed him first, though John supposed that his crush had been painfully obvious. Francis seemed to enjoy having an adorable little Freshman following him everywhere, offering to carry his books, being enthusiastic and eager to please.

But when it came to John's advances, Francis was always lukewarm. He seemed often uninterested, when they did eventually sleep together, it had been unsatisfying for John, even painful; at least the first time. Francis had always treated it like a chore. Like John was the unnatural, dirty one and he was merely grudgingly obliging. It had always been sterile and impersonal when John had wanted intimacy and love.

"So, you're here for a week?"

Francis shrugged, "that's what they said, but Dad told us we'd be in Syracuse for a month and we stayed ten, who knows how long I'm sticking around."

John nodded, chased the straw of his lemonade with hims mouth. Francis watched him fondly, "you've gotten taller, haven't you?"

John nodded a little awkwardly, "I'm five eleven."

"You were so cute in Freshman year, yet to hit that growth spurt, all those freckles," he grins, " _everywhere_."

John laughed, a little uncomfortable, and sipped at his sizzling lemonade, watching bubbles shoot to the surface and coat his slice of lemon like limpets on a rock.

"I wanted to clear the air, Francis."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. I was fucked up for a while after you moved. I know we broke up before that, but it still stung. I've missed you, God, I would have appreciated a call," he looked into his drink, then decided against being shy, being apologetic. John brought his chin up, gazed definitely at Francis, who shrugged.

"Quick and easy, that's always been my policy, Jacky."

John didn't think things were easier that way. Francis could have ended it quickly, but he could have at least been nice about it. John didn't ever expect flowers or matching bracelets, but a goodbye would have been appreciated. He'd have liked to have known the last time he kissed Francis was going to be the last.

"I know, but you just drifted off one day. Did you not think about how that might make me feel?"

Francis squeezes his hand, "okay, okay. I was wrong to do that to you. I just had to figure myself out. It wasn't personal. It was never personal."

John sighed, "sure felt that way at the time."

Francis has a pained look in his eye now.

"That's why I texted you, because I left this wrong and I wanted to see you again."

John looked into Francis' eyes and couldn't help melt a little. He'd always been putty in his hands, for Francis, reducing him to jelly had never been very difficult.

"John, you're so special to me. I don't know what I thought I was doing."

John smiled, tried to not appear as flattered as he actually was, "I missed you too."

Francis flashed him that movie star grin; he'd always been so charming.

"Shall we blow this joint?"

They took their drinks with them and wandered the nearby park, it was fresh and cold but the sky was a pale blue and the silhouettes of birds flew across the sky like fish streaking across a river's surface. John hadn't brought up Alex yet, he hadn't quite found the opportunity... Or the motivation. He didn't want to think about Alex right now.

"You're doing well at school, I bet. You've always been clever, Jack."

John tilted his head, kicks up some dirt and glanced up at his friend, "not as though you aren't. T'es bilingue, comme moi."

Francis shrugged, "yeah, I was just saying that you're smart, dummy."

John laughed and Francis threw an arm around his shoulder, ruffled his hair.

"Do you wanna go to our old spot, under the trees?"

They sat in the shade of an oak tree in the park, John's head wasn't in his lap like old times, but it rested beside Francis', dangerously close. If they both rolled over, their lips would meet.

"So, any excitement in your life? Any boys, girls?"

"You know I'm gay, Francis," John laughed, chewing on some grass.

"Yeah, fine, any boys then?"

John nodded, "yeah. Hate to shoot you down, but there's a guy called Alex."

Francis raised an eyebrow, "so you have a boyfriend now?"

John hesitated. They'd never used that word before. Sheer mutual discomfort? Mutual fear? Maybe.

"I-I don't know if I'd say boyfriend..."

Francis lay back down, his hip brushed John's.

"Hmm. What's he like? My age or yours?"

John stretched, avoiding answering the question. He didn't know if he wanted to be talking about Alex right now.

"He's my age. Laf's parents took in another foster kid, he's that kid."

Francis hummed in interest, "ooh, a bad boy. I never took you for having a type, Jacky."

John scrunched his nose, "I dunno if I'd say bad boy."

"He cute?"

John smiled to himself, thought of dark hair and cheeky smiles.

"Yeah. He is."

"You fucked yet? Knowing you-"

"Woah, getting personal there, Christ, Francis."

Francis rolled onto his side so he faced John, smiling devilishly.

"Come on, don't need to be such a prude. It's not like we never, well... Fine. I'll leave it."

"Yeah, please do."

Francis laughed, "so you're not taken?"

John frowned, keeps his eyes glued to the sky.

"I-I'm not exactly- I'm not single."

Francis laughed, "it's complicated is good enough for me."

John bit his lip, he thinks it's more than 'it's complicated'.

"Yeah, I don't know. I like him a lot, so..."

Francis shrugged.

"You never hesitated to get with me. If you liked him, you'd be with him by now."

John frowned. Alexander's situation was complicated. There'd not been much time recently for solidifying a relationship, between arguments and a suicide attempt.

"Look, you're here for a week, Francis. Hanging out is fun, but soon you'll be back in Syracuse or wherever you live now. What exactly are you hoping for?"

Francis pouted, "one last kiss?"

John laughed, "you've gotta be kidding."

The older teenager shrugged and sat up, shaking a leaf from his golden hair.

"Sure. Kidding. Listen, I'm about to go and see Louis, so you can either come or we can meet up later."

John wrinkled his nose, "Louis such a junkie these days. Be careful what you eat around him, if he's made it, it'll have weed or magic mushrooms in it."

Francis let out a bark of laughter, "thanks for the tip. A bit surprised to hear it from you, though. Didn't you smoke weed at that spring break party last year?"

John pushed some hair out of his face and raised a shoulder indifferently, "I don't recall any such thing."

"It's a memory-loss drug, Jacky," Francis began to walk away, grinning, "who knows what you did on that stuff."

John watched him sidle off across the park, his jacket under his arm, bag swinging off his shoulder. He'd always been so effortlessly graceful, like an actor. John didn't think he ever seen that facade slip.


	42. Chapter 40

**Hello! Alternate story-line going up soon, watch out for it!**

 **God, why are there so many of you?**

 **Qwertweirdo: Thank you very much, I think I'm very lucky to have the fans I already have.**

 **Guest: vAPorOo**

 **Guest: I don't speak Spanish so I try my best to use multiple sources when writing in it. Obviously, Google translate to Spanish was updatd recently and is actually pretty decent, but I use wordreference too. Thanks for letting me know, I'll do my best to double check translations now. Thank you very much! You could be much harsher and I still wouldn't be insulted!**

 **elliac: I'm honestly just writing this as it comes to me, there's no elaborate plan anywhere, just me never being able to think of anything else. I'm glad you've enjoyed it and I hope you can put up with my dreadfully sporadic updates.**

 **Anonymous: That's the aim, pal. It's better today! Honestly I didn't give a shit about whether it was good or not before and my French has improved so much in this past year that, honestly, I'm embarrassed reading old updates. The French in this one is pretty good, I think.**

 **Anonymous: Well, when I write about him hearing voices, I mean the voice(s) of his depression/ anxiety telling him things. If I'm not wrong, schizophrenic voices are often unrelated to a person's personality and can be multiple genders and moods at the same time. Alex's are more just different parts of his brain telling him things. Eg., that he's not good enough.**

 **Procrastinatingmushroomfangirl: I'm going in October! It's awful, really, I'm so sorry. When I publish my alternative story-line about Mr. Elliot, it'll be far more regular as that's already written.**

 **ShipperInParadise: Mhhhm.**

 **Smol9247: Ikr.**

 **shy kid: yh no srry.**

 **Kitty: Yeah me too bruh**

 **Nope: I fuckin' wish**

 **Trigger warnings: Past abuse, past unhealthy relationship, drugs (marijuana), suicide recovery, panic attacks, PSTD (sorta).**

John hadn't seen his dad in four days now. They weren't on good terms, and though this was nothing out of the usual with his father, he had hoped moving back in would fix at least some of the problems they always found their relationship in.

But doing that was like turning your phone off and on again. It never worked for the big problems.

But John had fallen into the habit of getting up every morning at a quarter past six and slipping out of the house before his father had even managed to stumble to the bathroom in his usual bleary, hungover state. Of course, his father avoided John as much as John avoided him. In the evenings, when John had locked himself in his bedroom, blasting music through his earphones and drawing, he'd send Martha up to ask him if he wanted dinner.

John always said no, ate a pot-noodle before bed, long after his father had settled into the living room with a six pack of beers or a bottle of Buchanan's and a crystal tumbler.

One thing was on his mind above all else, however. Tomorrow was Alex's first day back at school in weeks, and when they'd last spoken earlier that day, he'd sounded as though he was trying his best to convince John he was nonchalant about it all, that it wasn't keeping him up at night or raising his already elevated anxiety past its usual levels.

They'd hung out earlier, Lafayette had made lunch and he and Hercules had eaten it in front to the TV, while John and Alex had eaten it quickly and went upstairs to his room.

Alex tapped his pencil on the sheet of paper he was drawing on, furrowed his brow, "look. I don't think most people know about... about all this, so if I can dodge awkward questions for just a few days, the high school twenty-four hour news cycle will move on, right?"

John picked up an eraser and rubbed out the line Alex had just drawn, tapped it with his pencil critically.

"Unless you want his arm to look like an eggplant, you've gotta follow the reference properly. Since when did a forearm have a joint middle of it, Alex?"

They'd been bored, had watched an entire five episodes of queer-eye and needed a break from Netflix. John had found some paper and pencils, thought it might be fun to help Alex draw something.

"This is hopeless," he sighed, "drawing's not my thing. I'm cool with that. Besides, what if I was the next Michelangelo? You'd have majorly fucked yourself over by helping me discover that, right?"

John laughed, began to shade his own sketch, which was admittedly far, far better than Alex's.

"True. The only teacher in school who likes me is Mr. Sima, and if you came along all witty and smart and good at drawing, I'd have to move out as resident art hoe."

Alex grinned, pressed his face into John's shoulder and put down his pencil.

"Everything's going to be okay tomorrow, you think?"

John wasn't so sure. He knew things would be okay in a few weeks, maybe a month, but he didn't know whether things would be normal instantly.

"I think so. Just stick with us, ignore anyone who asks anything that isn't... well... polite and well-meaning."

Alex nodded and stood up from his desk chair, stretched and groaned, leant against the cupboard by his window.

"I didn't sleep last night. Laf and I stayed up watching TV."

John rolled his eyes, walked over to Alex and pushed his chin up to examine his under-eye circles.

"In my defence, I wanted to go to bed at eleven, but he insisted I stay with him. He has a funny thing about letting me out of his sight these days. I was taking a shower yesterday and he stood outside the door talking to me the whole time."

John fought the urge to laugh. This was simultaneously so in character for their friend and a little worrying. Of course, he'd been distant since finding Alex a few weeks ago, but John had been sure that Lafayette would see the recovery Alex was making and, alongside him, recover too.

"That's... A little too in character for him. I mean, I love him, and he can be overbearing, but this... seems a little far."

Alex shrugged, "I just feel weird coming out of the bathroom naked save a towel and told, loudly, that my underwear's clean and downstairs for me to bring up."

John burst out laughing and Alex whacked him on the arm.

"Seriously, this is a real problem that I am trying to deal with! He has no sense of personal space!"

John laughed and backed him up against the wall, pressed a hand against his chest.

"I don't really have much of that either, not when it comes to you."

Alex raised an eyebrow, "see the difference is, when I'm this close to you, I can-"

He cut himself off, kissed John on the lips, still grinning. The taller teenager laughed into his mouth and wrapped his arms around Alex's waist, stepped even closer.

They kissed for a little while longer. This was one of their balanced kisses, John thought. Where they weren't so lost in their own passion that they were clashing teeth, stumbling against walls, but not exactly chaste or innocent either. John liked both sorts, he liked Alex pressing little kisses to the side of his mouth whenever he said something sweet, or the way Alex tried to control his frantic, hurried breaths when they made out, but always gave up in the end.

They joined Hercules and Lafayette downstairs later, watched some TV with them and talked about school the following day.

"If anyone gives you shit, and by that I mean Charles Lee," John told him, "I will personally beat their ass."

Hercules laughed and leaned towards Alex, covered John's grinning mouth with his hand.

"Don't even let Lee be like that, just walk away, seriously, he's not said much to us this week, I think he's stopped caring."

Alex shrugged, "I like John's plan too, maybe as a backup."

Lafayette wrapped an arm around Hercules fondly, "the single time I've ever seen him fight was when Lee and King where- you guys say wailing right- well, wailing on you."

Hercules shrugged, "Alex doesn't need a personal bodyguard, he's got his boyfriend to watch his back."

Alex rolled his eyes and Lafayette's face lights up in a grin, "yeah, Alex, how does it feel to be dating an older man?"

John shoved Lafayette playfully and wrapped an arm around Alex, raised his eyebrows at him, "yeah, Alex, what's it like?"

But Alex looked a little uncomfortable. Maybe it was the 'older man' joke, maybe it was just that he and John still hadn't used the word 'boyfriend'.

"I- I dunno. I turn sixteen soon anyway so-"

Lafayette laughed, "so you don't usually go for _older_ guys," he teased, watching Alex amusedly. The teenager hesitated and shrugged slightly, stopped meeting his foster brother's eyes. Hercules seemed to sense something about the topic was making Alex uncomfortable, so he patted Alex's arm and grinned.

"Whatever happens, John is always ready to beat some ass and Laf and I can watch happily on."

Lafayette scowled and cracked his knuckles, "no, count me up, I'm ready to crush some skulls."

John grins, "it's 'count me in' or 'sign me up', but you can't mix the two, Laf."

The French teenager shrugged, "I will not need words when I'm face to face with Lee..."

Alex was, at least, slightly mollified by this. All he had to do was keep his head high and ignore any idiots that tried to ask dumb questions, or say horrible things. He was looking forward to getting back to school, anyway, he felt behind already. Lafayette had brought him a lot of their homework since he woke up, but some days he'd just felt too awful to do any of it. The thought of falling behind even further, giving everyone one more thing to hold over him, made him feel ill.

John's phone buzzed and Alex looked down at it absently. A text, from-

John picked up his phone before Alex could read the name, his hand darted out quickly and he read the text with a slightly hopeful expression, or at least an expectant one.

"Who's texting?" Alex asked, casually, only a little curious.

"Just a friend, asking about homework, it's nothing," he replied airily, but his cheeks were tinted pink.

An hour or so later, Hercules was picked up by his dad to go grocery shopping and John left to catch a bus to another friend's house, they'd agreed to share work on a project.

So Alex and Lafayette were home alone, George working overtime at the office and Martha visiting a friend.

Alex walked to the study where he'd left his book open on the couch. Alex, the cat, was lying directly beside it, his soft belly exposed as though he was waiting for someone to tickle it.

Alex sighed and walked over, picked up his book and sat down in the opposite corner of the couch as his feline counterpart. The cat, however, shifted closer. Alexander didn't have a problem with cats. There were plenty roaming around the village he grew up in that they'd feed occasionally by the back door, and foster families had had all sorts of pets, but it was the naming of this particular cat that he wasn't fond of.

He knew that he has dark hair much the same shade as the cat's, that he was a little skinny and jumpy too, but he wasn't an animal. He despised everything about the comparison. They didn't understand all the connotations he'd come to associate with that kind of terminology. Connotations like Mr. Elliot, calling him an alley cat, stroking him like he was a fucking pet. Peter, telling Mrs. Newson she had them all 'well trained', the Harveys, making him earn every morsel of food like they were training an unbroken dog, Mrs. Newson, who'd grab his face like he was an animal at an auction and she a potential buyer.

He'd been compared to a pet, a stray cat, a fucking animal too many times. Was it because he'd always been poor? Was it because he'd let himself be treated like a pet, had, at a point, lain back, grit his teeth as Mr. Elliot had touched him? Because he'd learned and then applied all the ways he could earn food from the Harveys?

It didn't matter, he only looked at the cat and felt uncomfortable, out of place in this huge, beautiful home.

But now, the cat was nuzzling Alex's hand and sticking his head over the pages of his book, making it impossible to read. Alex half-heartedly tried to push him away, put the cat persisted, obviously wanting to be pet. Eventually, he gave in. He rubbed under his chin for a little while, unable to hold back a smile at the tiny purring nose the cat made, the way his whiskers trembled along with his purrs.

"Ey, no eres tan malo, Gatito," he grinned, scratching behind the cat's ears. He wondered if it would be too confusing to call this cat another name, but he so vehemently hated that it was named after him.

 _Hey, you're not that bad, Kitten._

"You're Gatitio now, get it?" He bit his lip, feeling a little silly talking to a cat, "they're all gonna call you Alex, but that's a name you've gotta earn, buddy."

The cat didn't reply, rolled onto his back and stretched out his tiny limbs, yawned widely to show a rough pink tongue.

"Te voy a enseñar español, Gatito, ¿eh?"

 _I'm gonna teach you Spanish, Kitten, huh?_

The cat's four paws closed around his hand, though his claws weren't extended, he was merely playing with Alex's fingers, batting them around gently. Alex laughed and flopped onto his stomach, rubbed the cat's belly and grinned, charmed by this tiny, playful thing named after him.

"Listen, we're gonna make an alliance, us two. ¿Sí? Push back against this naming bullshit. You'll be much happier as Gatito, won't you? Frankly, I don't think Alex even suits you, eres demasiado adorable."

Lafayette's voice entered the room, it was full of laughter.

"He's so cute, right? Scratches up the end of my bed, but still..."

Alex nodded, "he is. Where does he sleep?"

He remembers the stray his family had for a year or so, he'd jump all over Alex's bed at night, often waking him up at ungodly hours in the morning.

Lafayette shrugged, "anywhere. He likes my bed, but I found him in the towel cupboard yesterday."

Alex grinned, "¿Oyes eso, Gatito? Puedes dormir en mi recámara ahora."

 _Hear that? You can sleep in my room now._

Lafayette looked at him in amusement, "what was that you called him?"

Alex shrugged, "Gatito. It's unoriginal, Spanish for kitten, but I feel weird calling him my own name, so to me he's Gatito now."

Lafayette frowned, "it might become confusing."

"Whatever, he'll probably learn to go by both names."

Alex read a few chapters of his book then, with his foster brother playing with Gatito beside him. He was tired, but despite this, he had got an essay to finish writing.

So he put his book back on the shelf and left Lafayette to the cat, walked to his room where his unpacked duffel bag from the hospital had been thrown into the bottom of the cupboard.

He thought he left his pen in one of the pockets, but for the life of him he couldn't remember which one.

Alex rummaged through his duffel bag, head stuck into the bottom of his wardrobe, legs sprawled across the floor. He was sure it was in here, if he could just find the right pocket, maybe he'd-

"ALEX! Papa! Alex! Viens ici !"

It was Lafayette's voice, high pitched and frantic in a way Alex had hardly heard it before. He jumped and smacked his head against the wall of the cupboard, yelled in pain and scrambled back to his feet.

Then there were footsteps on the stairs, hurried and anxious, stopping dead in the hallway.

Alex, still clutching his head, walked out his bedroom door and into the hallway, utterly bewildered. Lafayette stood clutching the door jamb, his face ashen and his eyes wide. Behind him, George stood at the top of the stairs breathing heavily, his eyes wild.

"Alexander, are you alright? What's happened?"

Realisation hits him like a brick into his stomach and he freezes, looks from George to Lafayette and back.

"God, I'm sorry, I- I was looking for something in my cupboard and Laf must have- I'm so sorry, please, I didn't mean-" Alex cut himself off before he could spiral further. His habit of apologising excessively, a remnant of years of expecting punishment for situations like this, had started to crop up again recently.

George then turned to Lafayette, who was still frozen in Alex's door way, and frowned.

"Now, really, Gil, there was no reason to-"

Lafayette burst into tears.

For a moment, no one seemed to know what to do. Alex merely watched, horrified and still clutching his head, like he was staring at an awful car wreck. George's hand was frozen midway to Lafayette's shoulder and, on the staircase, Martha stood stock still with a hand over her mouth.

Martha was the first to react. She pushed past George and wrapped an arm around Lafayette's shoulder, began to lead him towards the stairs as he wiped his eyes, took deep, shuddering breaths.

George guided Alex down, holding his elbow gently but reassuringly.

"Your head, Alex, how hard did you hit it?"

He shrugs, winces as a searing pain shoots through his skull, "it's not too bad, I'll just- just find some peas."

Martha sat Lafayette down on a chair in the kitchen. He'd stopped crying and now his face was blank and his eyes closed, fists clenching and unclenching on the table.

Alex took a pack of frozen peas from the freezer, wrapped them in a tea cloth and held them to the cut on his forehead, winced audibly and managed a weak smile at Martha. His primary concern right now was his foster brother, who he'd shocked into some sort of panic attack by stupidly recreating the exact position he must have found him in weeks ago.

"Laf, je suis bien, écoutes-moi, J'ai cherché pour un stylo, c'est tout. C'est tout. Je suis bien."

The French seemed to jolt Lafayette back to the present and he turned his head slightly to make eye-contact with Alex, nodded slowly.

"Yeah, ouais. T'es bien, I'm being silly."

George leant forward, clasped Lafayette's hand in his.

"No, Gilbert, you're not being silly. For a moment there, when you yelled for me, I thought something awful had happened. I thought it was that night again. But it's not, and Alex is okay."

Alex nodded, unable to look directly at his foster father. He'd not thought, when he'd woken up to find that he'd survived his attempt, that living would affect his foster family almost as much as dying might have.

Martha sat down beside Alex, pushed a glass of water towards Lafayette and set some antiseptic wipes down in front of Alex.

"Laf, do you wanna talk about this? Is this something that's been going on for a while?"

Alex didn't want to abandon his foster brother when he obviously needed to know he was okay, but this talk of his attempt, of how much it had hurt all the people around him, was just making the itch to hurt himself, to punish himself, grow more and more difficult not to scratch.

But nevertheless, he stayed. Martha began dabbing antiseptic at the small cut on his head and Lafayette began to talk, quietly at first.

"I- I just- the thought of it happening all again, or having to return to when it did happen- I couldn't bear with it. I panicked."

Alex's face burned, he stared down at the table and nodded along to what George was telling Lafayette about how they'd all had a tough time over the past few weeks, though he seemed to be faring worse than the rest of them and that-

"I think, maybe, you should talk to one of the counsellors at the hospital next time we go in with Alex."

Lafayette started sharply at this and gazed, wide-eyed up at George.

"Wait- no- but I'm okay, I just freaked a bit. I don't need-"

"Gil, listen, just talk to them once, only once. Get out your feelings. It doesn't need to become a thing, I only think maybe you'd benefit from it."

Alex nodded along with George's words, but inside, he was numb. He'd hurt Lafayette so badly that the teenager needed to see a psychiatrist. He'd done that. He was the cause of the tension in this house, the distress and disquiet.

He knew the Washingtons probably regretted taking him in, at least deep down. By now, he thought it was safe to say they weren't giving him up any time soon, but that was only because they pitied him. They were in too deep and before they kicked him out for good, he had to get better, so they felt less guilty.

So Alex fled to his room after that conversation and locked the door behind him, clambered into bed and closed his eyes. He was trying so hard to push himself out of this, to feel better, normal, happy. But he'd discovered before now that it was never that easy.

Just about a week ago, he'd tried to kill himself again. That had to be the opposite of him being okay. But John helped. John treating him like a normal teenager, not tying to be overly delicate or baby him, made him feel like he was allowed to get better, feel good about himself.

He heard a scratching at his door and groaned into his pillow, then got up and pulled open his bedroom door. No one stood there, but a second later there was something soft rubbing against his leg and the sound of a tiny body hitting his bed.

Gatitio had jumped onto his bed and sat behind him, on his pillow. He raised a paw to his mouth and licked it carefully, his tongue lapping noisily at his dark fur.

"Bien. Esta es tu habitación ahora."

 _Fine. This is your room, now._

The cat merely twisted his head around to clean his side.

Alex shut his door, walked back over to his bed and flopped down next to the cat. Gatito jumped and meowed plaintively at him, Alex scratched behind his ears lazily.

"Stupid cat. Should rename you Estúpido."

He grabbed a book of his dresser then, gave it about half his concentration for an hour or so, still thinking about his foster brother.

By the time he'd lost any interest he previously had in his book, George's voice was calling him down for dinner. Alex bookmarked his page, turned off his light and walked morosely down the stairs, dragging his arm along the bannister behind him, letting himself fall from step to step rather than bothering to walk.

George had made Mac 'n cheese. It was placed in the centre of the dinner table along with the salad Martha usually made in the mornings for her lunch, and used the leftovers of which as a side for dinner.

Lafayette was in his usual spot at the table, nearest the window, looking exhausted. His eyes were tinged with pink and his skin had that fresh, raw look to it that could only be associated with tears. He smiled weakly at Alex as he sat down and took a sip from his glass of water.

"Je suis désolé que je t'ai fait peur," Alex mumbles, digging the prongs of his fork into his sleeved arm.

 _I'm sorry I sacred you._

"Ne fais pas ça," Lafayette said quietly, watching Alex as he pressed the prongs harder.

 _Don't do that._

Alex dropped the fork, opened his mouth to speak, but then Martha was sitting down beside him and George was scooping a large portion of man 'n cheese onto his plate. These days, George and Martha were extremely strict about Alex's diet. In the few days Alex had been back, he'd discovered it was impossible to skip meals, or eat any less than what was given to him.

But there was bacon in this man 'n cheese. Pieces of bacon had been mixed in with the macaroni, Alex gagged as he turned the pasta over on his plate and began separating the pieces of meat from the macaroni. Eventually, he'd made to separate the piles of food. Slowly, he began to eat, piece by piece, swallowing as if the food were shards of glass rather than pasta.

"Take some salad, Alex," Martha encouraged, pushing the bowl carefully towards him. Alex, glad for an excuse to turn his attention from the pasta, took some and began to eat, chewing slowly.

Ten minutes later, everyone was more than halfway finished, Lafayette had helped himself to more mac 'n cheese and George had taken a second serving of salad. Alex's plate was still fairly full, he'd finished his salad and pushed all the bacon to the edge of his plate, and was doing his best to finish.

"I know you don't like bacon, Alex, but maybe try to eat just a little?" Martha suggested, eyeing the untouched pile of it on her foster son's plate.

Alex shrugged and swallowed another piece of pasta. He hated the very idea of it, the smell made him want to choke and the taste, he thought, would make him sick. When he lived with Katherine he hardly ever ate pork at all, as she kept Kosher and never bought any. His mom cooked mostly with seafood and chicken, so he'd never been the biggest lover of it anyway.

"You need some protein, eat some," George said, picking up his now clean plate and carrying it to the dishwasher. Lafayette watched Alex from across the table, he'd gotten most of the way through his second helping and was now sipping quietly at his drink.

Alex finished the pasta, ate the last slice of tomato on his plate and stared miserably at the bacon left there. Slowly, he picked up a piece on his fork and, holding his breath so he couldn't smell it, took a tiny bite. He swallowed quickly, wanting to taste the meat for as little time as possible, and let out a deep breath. It was as awful as he'd expected. The scar on his arm, underneath his sweater, seemed to burn and he could hear the sound of meat sizzling as though he was back in that kitchen.

He forced all this down and put the rest of the bacon on his fork into his mouth. He chewed, swallowed quickly, and gagged as it slid down his throat, as choking as the smell had been in Pace's kitchen that day. He covered his mouth with a napkin, sure for a second that he was about to be sick. But after a few deep breaths and a large gulp of water, he put down the napkin.

"Tu dois avoir une bonne raison de détester le bacon," Lafayette said, putting down his glass and watching Alex with concern.

 _You must have a good reason to hate bacon._

"Je peux pas faire ça, je vais vomir," Alex managed, shaking his head.

 _I can't do it, I'll get sick._

"Tu ne dois pas."

 _You don't have to._

"Ils seront énervés," muttered Alex, preparing to pick up another piece of bacon, determined to force it down if he had to. Then, there was a hand on his shoulder and the presence of somebody behind him.

 _They'll be mad._

"Alex, we're not going to be mad if you don't finish the bacon. You don't have to eat it something that's going to make you ill."

Alex set down his fork, breathed a sigh of relief and smiled sheepishly at his foster father. Lafayette picked up his plate and brought it to the sink, returned a moment later and sat down beside his foster brother.

"Y a-t-il une raison précise pourquoi tu n'aimes pas le bacon ?"

 _Do you have a specific reason why you hate bacon?_

Alex groaned, "c'est une affaire compliquée. Je sais pas si tu veux l'entendre"

 _It's a complicated affair. I don't know if you wanna hear it._

Lafayette said nothing, evidently this detail didn't matter to him.

Alex sighed, "Alors... uhh... Connais-tu la cicatrice sur mon bras? Mon père adoptif m'a brûlée avec une poêle qu'il a utilisé de cuisiner du bacon, donc je déteste l'odeur et le goût."

 _You know the scars on my arm? My foster father burned me there with a frying pan that he'd used to cook bacon, so I hate the smell and the taste._

Lafayette looked horrified, "Il l'as fait exprès ?"

 _He did it on purpose?_

Alex laughed quietly, "il ne m'as pas retenu par accident."

 _He didn't hold me down by accident._

Lafayette stared at his foster brother for a moment, "T'as devenu aller a l'hôpital ?"

 _Did you have to go to hospital?_

Alex shook his head, "J'aurais dû aller, mais mon ami m'aidé à le..." he paused, clicked his fingers, "tratar in Spanish... is it 'soigner' in French?"

 _I should have gone, but my friend helped me... treat it._

Lafayette nodded silently, his eyes were fixed on Alex's arm, the arm which, underneath his shirt, bore the scar of that burn. Alex, uncomfortable, stood up and brought his plate to the sink. He turned on tap, cupped his hands and splashed his face with water. Then, he drained his glass and leant against the counter.

He was forced to finally admit it to himself, he was scared about school tomorrow. It was hanging over him like a dark cloud, the thought of Lee and George, of the questions people would have, the comments from teachers about missed work, the fuss his friends might make. He just wanted everything to be normal again.

* * *

Louis' house was on the other side of town from Lafayette and Alex's place, so rather than walking, he crept back home to grab his bike. He wheeled it out of the garage silently, wincing when Martha's bike fell to the concrete floor noisily, terrified of drawing his father down. Fortunately, he managed to leave without the man noticing and cycled from there to where his friend lived, in a relatively large house a few streets away from Hercules.

Francis answered the door. He was only in a vest and jeans, despite it being practically November, and grinned at John.

"Hey, come in, Louis is in the living room."

John stepped into the hallway, took off his coat and hung it on one of the hooks on the wall. He hadn't been here in months, these days he only talked to Louis in school, they still sat next to each other in Biology.

Francis pulled him into a hug as he made to walk into the living room. John, caught off guard, relaxed hesitantly into it. Francis smelt the same, John couldn't put a finger on it, but it hadn't changed since he'd moved. It still made something bitter-sweet rise in his throat.

Louis was in the living room, lying on the sofa with a glass of water on a table by his head and a hand over his face, blocking the sunlight. John laughed, stepped a little closer and took in the faint smell of beer off his friend.

"Rough night?"

The teenager nodded and forced himself to sit up, blinking in the light and raising a groggy hand to John.

"Hey, buddy. Long time no see."

John shrugged and collapsed down on the couch, Francis sat on the rug, long legs stretched out in front of him.

"You two back together now? What happened with that other Latino guy?"

John tilted his head, "Alex?"

Louis rubbed his forehead, his eyes were bloodshot and his shoulders drooping.

"The druggie? Guy who hasn't been in for like three weeks cos he ODed on ket or something?"

John frowned "he's not a druggie and he doesn't do ket. Who said that?"

Louis laughed sheepishly "I never know where I hear things these days, I was at a party and pretty pissed."

Francis looked up at John with a smirk, raised an incredulous eyebrow, "I thought you said he wasn't a bad boy."

John groaned. This situation was becoming more and more difficult to diffuse. Alex was going back to school tomorrow, what if this rumour was spread past Louis' circle? What if everyone had heard it?

"He isn't, Fran. God, just leave him alone."

Louis held up his hands, "don't shoot the messenger, man, just repeating what I heard."

John let the subject drop. He fell silent and watched Louis pull himself to his feet, rifle through pockets for a moment before grinning widely.

"Yes! Still got them!"

He pulled out two joints, relatively thin ones rolled well (Louis had practice) that looked straight, weed and nothing else.

"You guys want some?"

John laughed and rolled his eyes, but Francis reached out and took one, opened his other hand for a lighter.

"I'll be okay," John said, an eyebrow raised as Francis flopped back onto the couch, cupping a hand around the joint in his mouth and lighting it carefully. Louis shrugged, sat down on the rug and brushed some hair from his eyes.

"More for me, I guess. Fran, weed's like a bit legal in New York, right?"

Francis nodded, "officially it's just for medicinal uses but almost no cop would care if you had under an ounce or so for personal use. In the city they don't even arrest you if you smoke it in public."

John hummed in thought, "I think they've decided to stop prosecuting people for personal use in Brooklyn because of how cops were disproportionately arresting black people and Latinos."

Francis shrugged, took a long drag on his cigarette, "don't ask me, no cop's ever gonna take me in for weed. Probably not here, either."

Louis laughed and John looked at the ground, his face hot.

"Here I'd get something on my record. Probably prosecuted. It's sort of different for me."

Louis nodded seriously but Francis rolled his eyes, tapping some ash onto an old newspaper on the table. John scowled.

"What?"

The teenager shrugged, "don't try and make me feel guilty for something I can't control."

Louis laughed, but his face was screwed up in incredulity, "come on, Fran, John's right, it's fucked up."

Francis seemed indifferent, "it is, but I can't do anything about it."

John watched him for a moment, silent, and Francis seemed to sense something in the atmosphere has shifted. He sighed.

"I'm tired. You're right, it's fucked up, I just don't think I should boycott weed because of it."

John tried a smile, "no one's going to ask you to."

Louis held out his joint to him, "you seem stressed, man, have some. Fran's here and everything."

John accepted it, held it between his lips and took a long drag. Every second he spent around Francis made his usually low levels of anxiety spike enormously. He tried so hard to impress him and simultaneously not to care what he thought, it was exhausting.

"That's more like you, John," Fran laughed, taking three short, consecutive puffs and holding the smoke in his throat for a few moments before exhaling. John stood up, the joint between his fingers, and threw open a window.

They passed the cigarettes around until they were smoked down to the roach. John lay on the couch, his feet brushing Francis' lap, staring at the ceiling.

He hadn't done this in a long time. Since he'd been in a really bad place about a year ago, unable to deal with how Francis made him feel, how his father made him feel, how utterly lost he felt. And this was supposed to help a little, so of course he'd tried it.

So, about five minutes later, when he started to feel his eyelids becoming heavy and his concentration shifting from one thing to the next every other second, he didn't freak out like he did when he'd done this fist. He stretched and sat up, crossed his legs and watched Francis, lying on the couch, smiling slightly.

"Where'd you get this stuff, Louis?" John asked, trying not to let laughter creep into his voice.

Louis took a few seconds to respond and John started to laugh to himself, pushing hair from his eyes, God, there was so much of it.

"A friend, I'll hook you up if you want."

Francis nudged John in the ribs playfully, "yeah, the kid needs to relax."

John shook his head, "I'm good, Louis."

They all fell silent then, John playing with his hair where it rested beside his cheek on the cushion, Francis watching him with a small smile.

"It's grown a lot- what are you laughing at?"

John's lips were sealed together tightly to hold back laughter and he shook his head, biting his lip.

"No- I- nothing," he grinned, rolling onto his side and watching Francis intently. He pictured his face a lot, at night when he couldn't sleep, almost every time he saw Louis or thought about Freshman year. They were close now, he and Francis. If John were to shift forward a little, their noses would touch.

"When was the last time you had any real fun, John?" Francis asked, pushing some of John's hair behind his ear, "when did you last get drunk, have a good time?"

John frowned, "getting drunk isn't always fun..." he hesitated, "you might get sick," he finished lamely.

"But you're so boring now," Francis sighed, Louis said all you do is hang out with Laf and Herc."

John opened his mouth to respond but paused, holding his forehead with wide eyes.

"What?" Francis laughed, watching him amusedly.

John shook his head, his eyes wide, "the entire room just spun, dude."

Louis burst into laughter beside them and John joined in, rolling onto his stomach and burying his face in the couch. He felt light-headed but his eyelids were heavy and his muscles relaxed and pleasantly drowsy.

Francis sat up and raised his hand to his mouth, as though to take another drag on the joint, only to remember it had been smoked.

"Ah, shit, Louis, you got any more?"

Louis patted his pockets down and frowned, "uh, maybe- maybe upstairs."

Francis raised an eyebrow and jerked his head at the stairs, then burst out laughing, falling heavily backwards onto John. His skin gleamed with a light sheen of sweat, giving the appearance of emanating light, rather than reflecting it. His profile was sharp against the window beside them and one strand of hair had fallen down over his forehead, unnoticed.

He was almost a complete contrast to Alex in looks. Where Alex was sharp and scruffy, Francis was long and graceful. Alex was all browns and black, eyes like freshly brewed coffee and hair that became indistinguishable against the sky after sundown. He was assembled with sharp elbows and knees, giving him an almost child-like, but definitely athletic appearance.

Francis had skin like the inside of a peach with pink palms and elbows. His eyes were silver and hard, only crinkling to warm grey when something was particularly amusing, and only in front of a rare few, so that anyone who received it felt graced by something normally given away so easily by others. It was a little trick of his, to withhold such basic things like hugs and laughter, only to make them seem more loaded and precious when he gave them.

Alex was similar to him in some ways. He gave smiles and laughter rarely, but didn't withhold them if the situation warranted it. It wasn't conscious, his seriousness, rather learned. He became himself when he was comfortable with the people around him, not when he knew it would make people like him or because he had learned to reveal himself in pieces to be mysterious, and therefore desirable. He affection was rare, like Francis', but he didn't half-ass it or hang it over people's heads as a reward.

And John had _adored_ Francis. He remembered when Francis moved away, he'd gone to Lafayette's house for the first time in months and lain on his couch all afternoon, trying not to cry, then crying, and having Lafayette awkwardly trying to comfort him with tea, comedy shows and snacks.

Louis re-entered the room and John started. He was holding a bag and some rolling papers and tossed them at Francis.

"Roll them yourself."

An hour later, John felt like he was made of cement. His eyes were heavy and his concentration darted back and forth between ideas, unable to stay long enough of anything. His vision was warped and seemed disconnected from his body, as though his eyes were somewhere else in the room entirely.

He was vaguely aware that Francis' arm was around him, and later that his head was resting on something soft, a lap or a stomach.

"Fran, man, this is fucking-"

Louis started to laugh beside them, smacking the floor with his hand, "do you- do you know what you guys should- you should do a shotgun."

Francis joined in, holding his sides as though in pain and gasping in steadying breaths, unable to stop his laughter.

"What's a shotgun?" John asked, looking between them, bewildered.

Francis' mouth stretched back into a grin and it seemed to take him a huge effort not to burst out laughing again. He beckoned to Louis for the joint and motioned for John to come closer.

"Open your mouth," he told him, placing the joint between his lips and taking a long hit. He held the smoke in his mouth and then, as Louis watched, grinning, Francis grabbed the back of John's head, pressed his lips to his and breathed the smoke into John's mouth.

John pulled back sharply, coughing on the smoke and blinking in surprise, Francis started to laugh.

John merely sat there, his face burning. Francis had kissed him. Kissed him. Did it mean anything? Surely it did. Did it mean he'd missed John as much as John had missed him? He felt something hopeful and excited spark in his chest and he held out his hand for the joint.

"One sec," said Louis, taking a long drag with closed eyes. His eye-bags were red and his cheeks were flushed scarlet. The room was warm as they'd closed the window a little while ago out of fear of smoke being smelt on the street. Now, smoke swirled around them, settling into their clothes and hair. John would have to shower thoroughly later.

Then, Francis leaned towards their friend, winked at him, and pressed his mouth to his. Louis breathed out and Francis pulled away, exhaling the smoke a moment later.

John's shoulders sagged. So it hadn't meant anything. That was fine, that didn't bother him. He had Alex.

But God, he missed Francis sometimes. He missed sleeping with him, even though his boyfriend had been cold and unaffectionate. He missed how tall Francis felt when they kissed, when he'd slide his hands down past John's waist or up to touch his chest.

Louis laughed, his eyelids were drooping and the whites of his eyes were marred with red blood vessels.

"John's jealous, Fran."

Francis laughed and crooned pityingly, taking a hit and touching John's jaw with a gentle hand. John opened his mouth and Francis breathed the smoke past his lips.

They smoked the rest of Louis' weed over the next hour or so, which, considering the kind of person he was, was a lot. John was hardly able to do more than lie on the couch, staring up at the ceiling and watch strange shadows flit across his vision.

He thought he'd had too much. He'd been so intent on impressing Francis and shedding the anxiety that always threatened to overcome him around the teenager, he'd been sure getting as high as he could would help.

But now, when he sat up, the world swam and Louis and Francis' voices were distorted. When Francis breathed another hit into his mouth, he didn't even inhale, he was too lost in swirling smoke (or were they ghosts?) and warbling sounds that seemed to reach him through water.

He must have passed out after a while, because when he came around, a blanket thrown over him, it was dark out. He was aware of someone else pressed up beside him, trapping him against the couch. Francis' hair gleamed in the light of the streetlamp outside and fluttered gently when he breathed.

John groaned and pressed a hand to his forehead, his skull felt like it was going to split open. He couldn't go home like this, it was too late and he stank of weed, his father would realise the second he walked over the threshold.

So he dug his hand into his pocket and pulled out his phone, wincing as it turned on to full brightness. It was ten minutes to ten, he should have been at home right now.

He texted his father, _'sleeping over at a friend's house; i'm safe'_ , and promptly turned off his phone again, chucking it onto the empty arm chair beside them. Then he closed his eyes, wiggled further down beneath the blanket, sandwiched in by Francis and the leather couch, and fell asleep.


	43. Chapter 41

**Hello! Fun fact, as I'm writing this, its my birthday. Guess how old I'm turning?**

 **By the way, I'm going to be in Washington DC this February so, if any of you guys live over there and wanna hang out, hit me up. Obviously we'd have to skype first and stuff American people honestly fascinate me and I really want to meet you guys. My story stats say most of you live in the United States and there have to be some of you in Virginia, Maryland or Washington. PM me!**

 **By the way, L.E Rae, an author and one of my readers, reviewed on here and gradually we started talking and became friends. We've met up and she's going to come stay at my house in the Spring. Just goes to show, I guess.**

 **Also, hit me up if you're also a Brit. The internet is full of Russians and Americans, I want to know that some of my people are here.**

 **Heythere: Thanks so much! It mean a lot to hear all this.**

 **Anonymous Person: I've been doing French for eight years now, and I love it! Sorry, what is the song called? Je ne sais pas? And yeah, he is a grade A asshole.**

 **Lily Pauls: I'd be happy to. Hit me up!**

 **YouAreAlmostOutOfMilk: God, it's hardly a piece of literature, but it's nice of you to say so. Well, I guess you'll see.**

 **Guest: Are you talking about the French or Spanish? I do speak French, but very little Spanish.**

 **Guest: Well, 'va te faire foutre' literally means 'go make yourself come', actually. Kiss my ass would be something like 'embrasses sur mon cul', though obviously 'fuck off' is the most sensible translation. Saying kiss my ass literally in French just isn't very common.**

 **Guest: Thanks so much!**

 **Cgmofofer: Cheers! Ooh, spacious and inconsistent updates, getting a little passive aggressive there. Are you British too?**

 **Fuest: You write like my friend talks and her name starts with an 'F', so I thought you were her.**

 **Trigger warnings: drugs, alcohol, mentions of unhealthy relationships, migraines, mentions of suicide/ overdoses, mention of rape.**

 **Enjoy, then.**

John showered at Louis' house that morning. He shampooed the smell of weed from his hair and scrubbed the dried drool off his cheek. The steam was thick on the glass walls of the shower around him and he couldn't help but feel as though he was stuck in some high pressure chamber, some autoclave. His skin was pink with the sheer heat of the water and the confusion and movement of everything in and around him was almost too much to bear.

He could steel feel the drug in him. His eyelids were heavy and his head hurt, inside his skill thick and soupy, almost as though his thoughts were wading through strong currents. Yesterday evening their eyes had been red and bloodshot but normally a few hours sleep would cure that. John thought he probably looked alright.

Everything other than his physicality, however, was far from alright. Francis had flirted last night, kissed him last night, touched and teased him. He remembered it all through a smoky haze, whether this was drugged memory or the actual smoke they'd been engulfed in, he wasn't sure. He couldn't make sense of anything that had happened. Had he come on to Francis or had Francis come onto him? Had Louis been paying much attention, had he encouraged it? His remembrance of last night was slipping away through his fingers just as he grasped for it.

Louis had left some sweatpants and a t-shirt on the towel rail for him. They were both a little small, Louis being rail-thin from the somewhat appetite-impeding drugs he took, so the sweatpants hugged him uncomfortably in places and the shirt stretched over his shoulders and chest.

Francis stood in the hallway waiting to use the shower. His hair stuck up in places and his grin was lopsided and dopey, John was all too strongly reminded of their post-drunken, post-sex mornings months ago, when Francis was warm again and they'd drink coffee together in sleepy, comfortable peace.

His dad had texted him overnight, while he'd been, for all intents and purposes, dead to the world.

 _Dad (seven hours ago): We need to have a discussion about curfews, John. Come straight home from school this afternoon._

John winced. That wasn't good.

He and Louis chatted half-heartedly over breakfast, a bag of potato chips each, too tired to make much conversation. The other teenager was far more blasé about doing drugs the night before school and, as John was throwing his empty foil packet in the trash, Louis reached into the cupboard above the sink for a bottle of vodka.

"Louis, you're not-"

The teenager poured about two shots worth of the spirit into a glass and knocked back the liquid with an unaffected air about him, indifferent to the look of utter incredulity on John's face.

"Helps me get though that shitshow."

John chewed on his lip cynically and leant against the counter.

"Do you drink every day?"

Louis wrinkled his nose, "not... not really. A beer after school maybe, liquor only on the weekends."

John raised a cynical eyebrow, "you've already broken that rule."

Louis gave a glumly acquiescent sort of shrug and turned away just as Francis entered the room. His hair was wet but still managed to hold its curls, much darker than usual and dripping water down the back of his t-shit.

"John, are those Louis' clothes?"

John blushed, fingered the material of the shirt between his thumb and forefinger, "yeah."

The teenager smirked, "I like what they do for you, almost make me want to- well... Louis, I'm feeling something a little stronger than coffee this morning. Care to provide?"

John watched, utterly bemused as Francis tipped about a shot's worth of vodka into a mug and filled the rest with some of the steaming coffee from the percolator. He took a sip, exhaled forcefully with his mouth wide open, as though the taste repelled him, then downed about half the thing with closed eyes.

"That's not good for you, Fran."

John eyed the bottle of vodka warily and shook his head as Louis picked it up and extended it towards him.

Francis laughed, "you sound like... I don't know, like 'not you'."

Louis ruffled John's hair, there was a sort of filmy, glassy quality to his eyes that John hadn't noticed before. Was it a souvenir of all his wild nights, beers and vodka flowing, people putting acid on their tongues like candy?

"Let's just get to school. I, for one, am dying to meet this bad boy John's been hanging around."

John started at his friend for a few moments, silent. Francis wanted to come to school? Why else would he have willingly woken up so early?

"You're coming in?" His voice was low, and his eyes could focus on everything but Francis' face.

When he responded, John could almost conjure hurt into his voice.

"Yeah. I thought it might be fun. I haven't seen Johannes or Charles in ages."

A while ago, Francis and Johannes Müller had had something. John couldn't ever put a finger on it or find words to explain it without hesitating and shaking his head. He only remembered that, before he knew Francis personally, everyone had referred to him as 'Müller's Francis' and the two had been almost inseparable.

They ate the rest of the potato chips for breakfast and put away the vodka. Francis cleared the ashtray in the living room and Louis poured the last of the weed from the grinder into a new baggie, stuffing this into his pocket.

He had to text Lafayette. He couldn't walk into school with his ex-boyfriend and the school druggie without having some sort of explanation first.

 _John (just now): Francis is back in town & coming to school tday. We hung out last night w/ louis. dw it's nothing. Don't tell Alex all that shit about us. Kay?_

He waits for a reply as they're walking to school, Louis blinking in the bright sun, dilated pupils absorbing too much light, stinging them.

 _Laf (just now): Merde prk? I'll not tell Alex that shit cos YOU gotta soon. Sort this out, John. See u in homeroom._

He sounded like a disappointed parent.

They walked to school in chilly sunlight, leaves caught in their air and John, in his slightly weed-scented jacket, felt dizzy with all the movement around him.

It was easy to slip away from Francis and Louis at the gate. Francis was immediately swarmed by a crowd of junior and seniors, people he was friends with before he left last year. John slipped past his friends, pulling his jacket tighter around him.

Homeroom was quiet. Loads of people had gone to find friends or see what the commotion was about outside. Alex and Lafayette sit by the window, their French carried to where he stood. It was quiet but quick, the kind of French they spoke together that they knew John could barely keep up with.

Alex was wearing one of Lafayette's shirt's, it was a forest green thing that came down just above his butt. John found his eyes straying to that particular spot, his fingers clenching in his pocket. Alex looked better today. His skin was clear and bright, his hair curlier than usual and freshly-washed.

He walked over to where they sat, their conversation dying as they came nearer.

"Hey."

Alex looked up and smiled at him, the movement of his lips was a little half-hearted, however, and Lafayette didn't even bother with the pretence.

"Sit down. Tell us more. Why did you not tell us you were going to hang out with him?"

John groaned and leant against the edge of the desk beside Alex, their shoulders and thighs touching.

"I didn't think you'd approve, I'm sorry! I just- I heard Louis was hanging out with him too and I wanted to go."

Lafayette clicked a pen restlessly and twirled it between his fingers.

"He knows about Alex, right? He doesn't think you're single, does he?"

John shook his head, "don't worry," he tries a smile at Alex, "'course I'd tell him about Alex."

Lafayette sighed, "okay. At least there's that. Let's just get through the next few days, it'll be awkward, but we can stay away. Yeah?"

John nodded, Alex watching them both, seemingly slightly confused.

Lafayette stood up, "I said I'd see someone in the cafeteria. See you guys in English."

Alex turned to John as their friend disappeared out the door of the room.

"The way you talk about him, he could be... I don't know, Ultron or something."

John and Lafayette, upon hearing Alex had only ever watched the first iron man in badly dubbed Spanish, had sat him down one weekend and made him watch about ten of the seventeen films.

John laughed, his arms found Alex's waist and together, they leant into the wall, heads resting beside each other on a display board.

"He's not. We're no on great terms, as exes go, but we talked a bit yesterday and things should go okay if we just be civil to each other."

Alex nodded and, before John could do it himself, kissed him quickly on the cheek.

John laughed and reciprocated, blushing furiously. The thing about his relationship with Alex was that there was no big power imbalance. Sure, John was taller and stronger, but Alex could be so fiery and confident, he outshone even John's most passionate and emotional. It wasn't like it had been with Francis, John letting him steer and push in whatever direction he wanted.

The sit beside each other in homeroom and Alexander, upon seeing Eliza walk into the room, pulls her into a tight hug.

"I was so worried about you Alex, you look so much better!"

Eliza's eyes were lit up with relief and, though John knew Alex had been dreading returning to school, he could tell his boyfriend's mood was greatly bolstered by seeing Eliza again.

"John, did you hear, I'm sure you did, but Francis is back in town for a little while."

John did his best not to grimace and nodded, forced a smile. He was sure everyone expected him to be overjoyed.

"Yeah. We hung out yesterday. He's doing well."

Eliza smiled, though it seemed a little strained. He knew she could tell he wasn't all too happy that Francis had come in today.

Alex had retreated from the conversation and was reading the last of the book they were studying in class. He's missed most of the course but what they'd read an analysed in about two weeks, he'd done in four days. John knew, with a stab of pride and incredulity, he'd come out best in the test.

"He's okay, right?" Eliza whispered to John, watching Alex through a few strands of dark hair over her face.

John wrinkled his nose and shrugged, "he could put on some more weight, and he didn't particularly want to come back today, but he's better. Definitely."

Eliza seemed conflicted, "he doesn't know about all the stuff people have been saying, does he?"

John sighed and looked at his feet, "no. I'm hoping I won't have to explain."

Eliza nodded, "I've been trying to set everyone straight when they mention it to me. I just said he was ill or something, don't worry."

Alex looked up from the book.

"I can't believe they did me like that."

John furrows his eyebrows, his heart thumping.

"Got me thinking he was going to come out of that okay, but nope. He's dead."

John laughed in relief when he realised Alex was talking about the book. He and Eliza shared a glance and the girl leant forward, swiped Alex's notes off his desk. She glanced over them, smirking slightly.

"Of course you'd say like the exact thing out teacher did. You literally phrased these notes the exact same way he did and you weren't even in class with us."

Alex shrugged, "I didn't want to be behind. John's been bringing me homework."

The bell went for first period and John got to his feet, holding out a hand to help Alex up. Over the past few weeks, Alex had suffered multiple migraines and been dizzy often. Sometimes he'd stand up and clutch the wall, or someone's arm. He'd described it as someone waking you up by shining a flashlight in your face.

"Thanks," Alex pulled himself to his feet, winced slightly, and picked up his bag. Then, they made their way to first period. History.

John had a feeling Francis would be in this class. Louis and Johannes were, so it was likely they'd stick together throughout the day. Sure enough, when he and Alex walked into the classroom, his voice rang out the loudest. He was surrounded by about half a dozen people, all his and John's old friends from last year. He looked up they entered, his eyes slightly watery and overly bright from the vodka he'd had this morning.

"Jack!"

John felt his heart jump and walked over, he couldn't help smiling. Frances grinned at him and nodded slightly to Alex, who was watching Francis curiously, almost warily.

"Et-il ton copain?" His face had light up with glee, lost interest in the people around him.

"Ouais, mais il-"

But Francis didn't let him finish. He stood up, his eyes on Alex, and stepped a little closer.

"Mais il n'est pas ce à quoi je m'attendais. Oh, il est mignon, hein? Son visage, cette jolie petite coiffure. À t'entendre on dirait qu'il était plus, uhh, robuste. Un mauvais garcon, quelque chose comme ca."

 _Oh, but he isn't what I'd expected. He's cute, though. His face, that cute little hairstyle. You made him sound... tougher. A bad boy, something like that._

John cursed internally. He'd never said this, in fact, Francis had assumed this and he'd tried to correct him. In the corner of his eye, Alex was bright red, touching his tiny ponytail self consciously.

"Tu l'as dit, mais, _il parle_ _français_ _!"_

 _You said that- but, he speaks French!_

Francis stopped, looked between Alex and John with narrow eyes, then tilted his head back and laughed loudly.

"Alors, ca m'est égal," he looked away from John and walked nearer Alex, looking him up and down with a smirk.

 _Oh, well that doesn't matter._

"Il t'a mentionné. T'es de Porto Rico, pourquoi tu parles français?"

H _e mentioned you. You're Puerto Rican. How come you speak French?_

Alex frowned defensively , "T'es Américain, pourquoi tu parles français?"

 _You're American. How come you speak French?_

Francis laughed and shot John a glance, "he makes a good point. But I grew up in London and Geneva, so really, I often feel quite European."

Alex looked at his feet, "my mom was a bit French."

Francis smiled, "well, I'm sorry for that rather awkward introduction. I think I expected different."

Alex smiled slightly and stepped a little closer to John, whether this was protective or nervous, John wasn't sure.

"Well, I'm sorry if I didn't live up to my reputation, or whatever you had to go on."

He nudged John in the side with his elbow and then turned away, walking steadily towards the desks at the back of the classroom.

Francis raised an eyebrow quizzically, watching Alex walk away shrewdly before turning to John.

"He's cute. Didn't think you went for that."

John shrugged, when he spoke his words became more cutting than they had sounded in his head.

"My type isn't just people like you, Francis."

He could have sworn he'd seen a flash of hurt in the other teenager's eyes but chose to ignore it, he shook some hair off his face and stepped a little closer to Francis.

"Listen, I really like him. Really. We were high as fuck last night and you broke up with me, so let him be, okay?"

Francis squared his shoulders in an offended sort of way, not used to being spoken to with any degree of bluntness or rudeness from John, he was easily shaken in that regard.

"You're not as blameless as you'd like to think, John. Just remember that the next time you and your boyfriend are-"

John cut him of with a warning stare, he was excruciatingly aware of Alex's gaze on them and felt his heart rate pick up uncomfortably.

"Fran, let's not argue, okay. Just leave him be, okay, we can talk more later."

And with that, he stepped back and turned towards Alex. Smiling widely, he slid into the seat beside his boyfriend and pulled out his school things.

"God, I love History, but there's just-"

"He doesn't like me."

John looked up, his dark eyebrows furrowed in slight confusion.

"Francis? What makes you say that? Well- he's my ex and you're my- my boyfriend, but-"

Alex wrinkled his nose, "I can just tell. But it'd be awkward if we just got along like best-friends, I guess."

He shrugged rather fatalistically and, sticking a bobby pin between his lips as he retied his hair, smiled half-heartedly at John. He pinned back the shorter strands of hair around his face back and winked.

"He's hot though, to tell you the truth. And he speaks French. Damn."

John laughed, though the subject was quickly making him uncomfortable. Alex had flipped to the page they were working on in the textbook and was underlining the date in his copybook.

"He- yeah."

"This is the point where you reassure me that I am too, isn't it?" Alex quipped.

John bit his lip, the corners of his eyes crinkled into a smile and his eyes did an up and down of Alex's body.

"I though that went without saying."

Alex laughed and John, under the table, placed a hand on his knee, only for a moment.

Alex froze, if only for a second. It was a strange quirk, a souvenir from a certain foster father, but anyone putting their hands on his legs only brought him back to the horrible time he had spent with Mr. Elliot being touched and used like a piece of meat.

But John's hand had moved and his attention turned to the textbook barely a second later, leaving Alex wide-eyed, staring unseeing at the page in front of him.

He hated these little moments. The tiny flashes of remembrance that permeated the wall he'd built up between himself and the incident with that man. He remembered so much of it and so little at the same time. He remembered the colour of the underwear he was wearing but not the time, nor he date it had taken place. He remembered minute, excruciating details of how it had felt but couldn't recall what he'd had for dinner a mere hour before.

Actually. Tagliatelle. Fuck.

He took a slow, deep breath and pushed his pencil tip into his paper until it broke. This made him feel better.

When the bell went for break, he and John headed for the canteen. Normally, he, John, Lafayette and Hercules hung around at the edges of the crowd, sitting at their table and finishing last minute homework, eating and laughing. A few people approached Alex as they walked to the canteen, mostly well wishers asking if he was alright but a few people he'd barely laid eyes on before, wondering where he'd been for the past three weeks.

John steered him clear of that type and they reached the canteen eventually, where Lafayette and Hercules were chatting politely, though their expressions seemed strained, to Francis.

Francis and Lafayette had gotten on quite well for a little while. Before Francis and John's embankment into the world of drinking and sneaking out of their respective houses late at night, they'd been fairly average fourteen year olds - convinced they were far more intelligent than the majority of their peers and teachers, disdainful of their day to day life and sick of waiting until age eighteen to finally become independent.

They'd sit in louche little fast food restaurants and talk longingly about leaving Virginia, about leaving the three mile perimeter they spent every dragging day in. Everyone had admired Francis for having lived in Switzerland, having been to a boarding school like something out of an 19th century novel, and he'd lived up to the expectations that had come along with this. Lafayette's childhood in Paris seemed practically cosmopolitan compared to the Virginian suburbs, despite the fact that eleven year-old Lafayette hadn't done much more in his day to day life than go to school, argue with his friends and play video games the same way they all did then. John's French, basic and halting when he was a young teenager, had so quickly become nearly fluent around his European friends merely because it seemed like escapism to be able to, though language, be more than the son of a wealthy suburban Republican.

But Lafayette hadn't, and still wasn't, the type that turned to expressly forbidden things out of sheer boredom. He gagged at the taste of alcohol and couldn't justify sneaking out of windows at night to smoke around some bonfire. Hercules, being the mature and guiding force of the group, had refused to even try any of the things Francis and John had let themselves be swallowed by.

Quickly, they'd drifted apart. Francis and John one way, Lafayette and Hercules the other.

John and Alexander slid into the seats opposite Hercules and Lafayette, and Francis turns around.

"Ah, les tourtereaux," he grinned at them, showing perfect teeth. John, unfamiliar with the word, assumed it was some slight tease and said nothing, though Alex's face was a little pink.

"I was just catching up with Lafayette," Francis smiled at them, prompting Hercules to roll his eyes. Over Francis's shoulder, to Alex, he mouthed ' _in French!'_

Alex stifled a laugh and Francis regarded him curiously. Alex didn't like the way Francis looked at him. He had a disconcerting way of making you feel as though you were having a loud conversation in a quiet room or holding up a line of very impatient people.

He looked away awkwardly and pulled a book from his bag, resting his chin on his elbow and opening to his bookmark - something John had made him over the summer, a hand-painted image of the four of them he'd drawn from a selfie Lafayette had taken for his Instagram.

"That's sweet. John did it?"

Francis was stood behind him, peering over his shoulder at Alex's book. Alex smiled slightly and made affectionate eye-contact with his boyfriend.

"Yeah. He's good, right?"

Francis laughed and raised an eyebrow at John over Alex's shoulder.

"Yeah. He's always been good with his hands."

John kept his eyes fixed resolutely on the floor, red to the tips of his ears. Alex, evidently unaware of the double-entendre, returned to his book.

Francis drifted away then, there was crowd of Juniors at the opposite edge of the hall calling his name, Alex recognised one rather thin, weedy looking boy he'd seen occasionally sleeping in the library. He shared with Alex a hollow-cheeked sort of look but unlike Alex, his eyes had a slightly glassy sheen to them, as though he was drunk.

"Who's that kid?" He leant over to John, whispering this in his ear and gesturing to the Junior in question.

"Louis," John grimaced a little, "an old friend."

Alex nodded slightly, still watching Louis, and leant back in his chair.

"Alexander!"

Alex jumped at his name being called out loudly from over his shoulder. Turning quickly around, expecting Lee or George or someone equally detestable, instead he was met with the elegant and authoritative figure of Angelica, Eliza's older sister.

He tried a smile, though truly she made him nervous. She was extremely intelligent and though not boastful about it, not shy either. It didn't help that she was _beautiful_ , too. Her figure was very feminine, a sharp contrast to Eliza's slim, androgynous form. She had shrewd, glittering eyes and wore more makeup than her sister, today choosing a lipstick that made the colour in her cheeks seem even brighter.

He blushed slightly and stood up, unsure how to greet her.

"Hey, nice to see you," he stuffed his hands in his pockets and glanced at John, who was watching him with slightly raised eyebrows.

She smiled and Alex was relieved to find it genuine.

"You doing okay? You've been ill, right?"

Alex nodded, tugging awkwardly at the fabric of his ill-fitting jeans and shrugging.

"Yeah, I'm doing fine now though. I honestly couldn't wait to get back."

Angelica laughs and looks him up and down.

"I've always been the same," she said kindly, before pressing on, "anyway, Alex, the debate team is starting up this term and Eliza said it would be exactly your sort of thing. The team is full right now, if Jefferson ever gets back, that is, but we're holding trials and stuff soon. If you can argue well enough, maybe you'll make the team."

Alexander blinked, once. He hadn't been aware his school had a debate team, though in all fairness, he'd never looked very hard. He'd been on the team at his last school all Freshman year and, the year before that, captain of the one at his middle school. Debating was- _used to be_ , his thing.

"I- yeah? I've debated since the eighth grade," he laughed, "I- I'll come along. When's the next meeting?"

Angelica smiled gratefully and pulled her bag off her shoulder, rummaging though the side pocket. She pulled out a leaflet and handed it to him.

"November the tenth. Bring John, he was good last year."

Alex nodded, a warmth blooming in his chest he hadn't felt since the crisis with Francis had begun this morning.

"Thanks," he beamed up at her, "thanks loads."

Angelica smiled again. She waved to Hercules, Lafayette and John before turning on her heel and hurrying from the canteen, out the double doors opposite them.

So far, discounting the awkwardness between himself and Francis, Alex's day had started decisively better than he'd expected. Of course, some people continued to pester him about his absence, but most were either apathetic towards the situation or merely concerned.

Of course, the second he had thought this, his luck turned.

He was walking to English when someone fell into step beside him, a Junior. They were only a little taller than him with dark red hair, nearly brown, and a handsome profile. Alexander recognised him from the canteen earlier, he'd been one of the guys in the group Francis had moved to after talking with them.

"Alexander, right?" He asked, looking the younger teenager up and down critically, with a small smile.

Alex frowned and nodded, sudden apprehensiveness dawning in his chest.

"Can you tell me where you got it? I know you probably hate the stuff now, but- help a guy out, you know?"

Alex looked up at the teenager, bewildered, and shook his head slowly.

"Sorry, I haven't any idea what you're talking about."

The boy laughed quietly, still walking alongside him, "come on, my friends and I need some molly for a party and everyone said to ask you, I-"

Alexander stopped.

"Who said that?"

The boy raised an eyebrow.

"It's not a secret."

Alexander stood there for a moment, bewildered and, all at once, horrified. Molly? Fucking _m_ _olly_! The fucking amphetamine people took in the backs of shitty clubs?

"I can't help you. I don't do that shit," he grit out, starting to push past the boy. But he persisted, grabbing Alex's shoulder and holding him back.

"Nah, come on, man. It's chill, I'm not gonna snitch. Look, knowing people like you, I'll pay you extra, I'll give you seventy for five grams, come on. That's -"

Alex pushed the boy's hand off his shoulder forcefully and stepped away, his brows tightly knitted and his chest heaving.

"Fuck you."

He barely had time to see the confusion and anger burst on the other teenager's face before he spun around and jogged up the hallway to class, his heart pounding.

The way people had been talking to him all day, the way they'd been looking at him; it all made sense. He'd been so used to that brand of wary pity and fearful but self-righteous tone people took with him, he hadn't noticed when it had turned up a notch or two. The looks in the hallway and cantine hadn't fazed him, back in Freshman year, this had been common. But it wasn't because he had kissed another boy in public or even because he was a skinny, ill looking foster kid.

It was because someone had got it into their heads that he was a druggie.

He slid into a seat beside John in the middle of the English classroom.

"Did you know?" He asked quietly, his eyes pricking painfully and his hands clenching nearly involuntarily under the table.

John turned to him, confused until he took in Alexander's expression.

"I-"

"Were you ever going to tell me?"

John's eyes dropped to the desk and Alex threaded his hands into his hair and tilted his face to the ceiling, letting out a deep sigh.

"God, it's not the worst people'll have said about me, but fucking molly, God. Even if I was gonna deal drugs I wouldn't deal that shit."

John laughed quietly and Alexander rolled his eyes, still irritated.

"Go all natural, the mushrooms and the weed, maybe?" John tried, laughing through his words.

Alex shrugged, "I'm just... Some dude came up to me asking to buy some. I said no, obviously, so he said he'd pay me extra, 'knowing people like me'."

John grimaced and Alexander shrugged, tugging at his dark hair and watching the other students file in and sit down around them.

"Did you know the guy?"

Alex shrugged again, "he hung out with Francis today. Really dark red hair, pretty good looking."

John winced, "sounds like Johannes. He's alright, really, once you get to know him but-"

Alex straightened up, "but what? To everyone else he's a racist, self-important asshole?"

John shrugged, his face pink, and opened his English book. The conversation was over and Alex still felt betrayed; as though everyone had been laughing at him behind his back this whole time, and the joke had only gotten funnier now he had discovered it.

* * *

At lunch, he picked miserably at the pasta George had prepacked him that morning. He was aware Lafayette was watching him but couldn't ring himself to eat just to please him. He'd lost his appetite and this pasta had long gone cold.

"Hey, do you want some of this baguette, I'm seriously not going to finish it," Hercules offered. He was sat opposite Alex, half a bacon, avocado and egg baguette unfinished in front of him. Alex sighed quietly, shrugged and pulled it towards himself.

Surprisingly, the baguette was delicious. He hadn't enjoyed much food recently, it all seemed to taste like cardboard, but this he could stomach. He'd always liked avocado, these days it was a trendy hipster thing but it had always been a staple in his mom's cooking, in much Latin American cooking, actually.

"Thanks, Herc," he muttered, pushing back his sleeves and taking another bite.

"No problem, avocado just tastes like green to me anyway."

John laughed and his arm pulled around Alex's waist under the table, tightened somewhat. He leant in and pressed a kiss to Alex's cheek, his lips were soft and his hair tickled Alex's temple.

But Alex just yawned and looked back down at the baguette, took another tiny bite.

He just wanted to go to bed. He wanted to crawl underneath his duvet and sleep, surrounded by warmth and quiet and darkness. He was sick of everything about this place already.

He got through last period with his chin in his palm, staring out the window. It wasn't like he'd never used the painkillers in Pace's cupboard to put himself into a stupor for a little while, knock himself out when the pain was too much. And a week ago, he'd taken something like seventy pills and chugged half a bottle of scotch.

But he'd never even smoked weed, he and Rob hadn't tried any of that stuff. They'd gone to one party for Spring Break, had just enough beer to get tipsy and gotten bored. They'd hung around the snack table, eating chips and seeing how many marshmallows they could fit into their mouths. Alex smiled to himself as he remembered stumbling into a tiny spare room and making out with him, giggling and shushing each other as the party went on around them.

He'd have been so happy that year if it hadn't been for Pace.

When the school bell rang, he hastened to find Lafayette so they could go back to the Washingtons' - he was itching to write something and curl up in bed with a book, do anything but think about John and Rob and what everyone was saying about him at school.

But Lafayette, popular as he was, stopped every other yard as they walked out of homeroom. Alex, knowing about twenty people in his year and no more, stood, tapping his foot behind him and waiting for him to finish.

"Oh! I just need to tell Courtney she-"

"God, Laf, I'm going, I'll see you later."

"Mais j'ai le clé, connais-tu où-"

 _But I have the key, do you know where-_

Alex started to walk away, exhausted and fed up, "sous le pot de fleurs, l'un plus lointain a gauche."

 _Under the flower-pot, the one furthest to the left._

He walked glumly off campus, his hands in his pockets and his bag heavy on his shoulders. Most of the time, he regretted everything he'd done that night three weeks ago, and what he'd tried to do with a bottle of iodine most recently. On days like now, however, he wished he'd done it differently - better.

No one was in when he twisted the slightly muddy key in the lock and kicked off his shoes haphazardly in the hallway. He liked being here all alone. The house was so large, with endless spare rooms and studies and unnecessary bathrooms. He liked to wander around, running his hands over the shining wood and marble surfaces and lying on the unnervingly soft rug in the study, letting his eyes drift over the titles on the book shelves and the beautiful prints on the walls.

But today, he merely hung his coat on the back of his chair, made himself some hasty instant coffee and curled up with a book George had recommended last week, while he was still of school and bored out of his mind.

He read until he heard the front door click open and a clumsy set of footsteps in the hallway downstairs.

"Alex! Are you up there?"

He let out a lazy sound of affirmation and footsteps scampered towards him, eager and childlike. Lafayette burst into his room and threw himself down onto the bed, his expression apologetic.

"I'm sorry about that. I can get... distracted."

Alex shrugged and put down his book, "it's alright. I'm just tired."

His friend regarded him in vague concern and shifted hesitantly closer, as though unsure whether this would exacerbate the tension between them or relieve it.

"Is it Francis? Because he will be leaving soon anyway."

Alex shrugged and shook his head after a moment's thought, "no. It's just going back is hard. I know I whined about how bored I was but... I don't know, I just need to get back into a routine. Then I'll be okay."

Lafayette nodded sympathetically, "I get it."

He slapped Alex's bed as though to punctuate the conversation and sprung to his feet.

"Je vais faire du thé, tu veut du café ou-"

 _I'm making tea, do you want coffee or-_

"Une tasse de café, ouais merci," Alex finished for him with a small smile. Lafayette grinned and bolted from the room, his footsteps thrumming cheerfully along the polished wood staircase and along the hallway downstairs.

 _A cup of coffee, thanks._

Alex flopped back against his pillows, hand limp over his half open book, and sighed a heavy sigh.

* * *

Alex had begun to recognise the subtle and preliminary signs of a headache rather well over the past few weeks and was horrified to wake up the following morning with the familiar shimmering, heat-hazed vision he had come to associate with an imminent migraine. He stood up slowly, trying to blink away the blur as though it were tears, but as he dressed it became so permanently fixed in his vision that even squinting or peering at objects through half-closed eyes, tricks that usually worked, quickly rendered themselves as useless.

There was a terrible pressure in the air too, something thick and suffocating in the movement and shifting of the space around him. There was no real pain yet, that would creep in later, only a vague sense of fullness or swolleness in his head - the imagined swelling and pulsing of blood inside his skull that made his temples ache hotly and the backs of his eyes burn.

He sat in the kitchen glumly, watching an expensive vase on he dresser opposite him warp and tremble as though reflected in choppy water. Would coffee help? He was sure he'd read somewhere that coffee could either aid or exacerbate the pain of a migraine, only he couldn't be sure if there had been a distinction made in regards to telling which one applied when. He forced down two slices of toast under Martha's watchful eye and began to scour the living room in vain for the book he'd been reading last night. It was dark in the living room and it didn't occur to Alex to turn on a light or pull open the curtains, he merely felt around fruitlessly in the dark for nothing.

Lafayette was, of course, as loud and amiable as ever. He all but bounced into the hallway beside Alex, nearly tripping over an untied lace in the process, and announced happily that he'd heard they'd have a substitute teacher for Chemistry that day and could hope to get some homework done that period. Alex murmured along to his chatter as the began their walked to school, scuffing his shoes against the concrete and blinking away from the pale light of the November sun.

John was quiet that morning too, he put a discrete arm around Alex's waist under their desk and read the book Alex had gotten him for his birthday. Alex, though he had a book of his own out in front of him, could hardly make out a simple sentence. The book itself was tedious and dry, but he was having trouble even making out short conversations and comments. He had stared at the words so long that eventually, they transformed into illegible forms he had no hope of reading - the footprints of birds in sand or the scatterings of fly footsteps in ink.

"Did you do that Chemistry sheet?

Alex looked up, startled by the interruption, as though he'd just spoken in Mandarin.

"Huh?"

John laughed, "the chemistry sheet, Alex, have you done it?"

Alex winced slightly, finally able to make out his friend's words, "no. I haven't."

Lafayette, from a few feet away from them, called, "Alex! I told you, there's a sub today!"

Alex took a moment to comprehend this before exhaling slightly and giving a small, curt little nod.

"Yeah, you told me. Sorry."

John eyed him with vague concern for a brief moment before turning back to his book and squeezing very gently at his waist. So Alex returned to his stupor, the ringing in his ears and the warbling, beating sound in his head like a thin sheet of metal being struck resumed once again.

The throbbing started during Chemistry. His head had ached dully all during homeroom and the backs of his eyes had stung from the bright, florescent lighting and sun where he sat by the window, but he hadn't been properly _in pain_ yet, not at least until first period. The pressure inside his head seemed to intensify by a tenfold and closing his eyes, he could see the bright spread of veins throbbing across his eyelids. He felt as though someone was trying to break out of inside his skull with a sledgehammer.

Francis was in Chemistry that morning. It wasn't difficult to get into the high school he no longer attended. He was still recognised and liked by all his old teachers and, with the school having well over one thousand students, it was difficult for teachers to notice an extra student hanging at the back of the lunch hall or in a large Chemistry class.

He sidled over to John and Alexander a few minutes before the teacher entered the room and crouched down in front of their desk, resting his elbows over Alexander's book and staring up at them with a grin.

"Morning. How are _les tourtereaux_ doing today, then?" He asked with a small grin, drumming his fingers carelessly against the desk and meeting Alexander's eyes. The teenager looked tired, his eyelids were heavy and his complexion was grey and ashy. Francis had thought him exceptionally cute yesterday, but now he looked about halfway into his grave.

John smiled, though the movement was slightly terse and strained, "good."

Francis raised an eyebrow, "car le petit a l'air mort."

 _Because the little one looks dead._

Alex looked up, as though startled, only vague recognition of being the subject of Francis' comment showed in his expression.

"What?"

John watched his boyfriend for a moment with a small frown, "je pense qu'il est fatigué. C'est tout."

 _I think he's tired, that's all._

Alex seemed to come to himself and forced a smile, "ouais, c'est ca. J'ai sommeil."

 _Yeah, that's it. I'm sleepy._

Francis shrugged and reached up a hand to push some of John's hair from his face, "how long have you two been going out?"

Alex was staring off into space again, so John deigned to reply for them both.

"Uh, since late-summer. So... two months?"

Francis nodded lazily, "cool. And you guys have- you know- by now, right?"

John went a dark shade of read and turned to shoot Alex an apologetic look, but he was staring in the opposite direction, not listening to a word they were saying.

John lowered his voice to an angry whisper, "no, we haven't! And I don't think that's nay of your business anyway, seeing as _you_ broke up with _me_ a year ago!"

Francis laughed, "how are you being so patient? God, when we were together it took what, three weeks-"

John hit him hard on the shoulder, "God, I like him enough to wait for longer than barely two months."

Francis shrugged, "you've changed, then."

John sat back in his hair and regarded the blond teenager coldly, "I think your recollections of our relationship are very different to mine."

Francis shrugged again and leant away from the desk, about to turn and walk away. Then, with a final glance at Alex and a slightly raised eyebrow, he stopped.

"I don't even know the kid, but he looks like he's about to drop dead. I'd watch him, if I were you. Oh, and don't misconstrue this for worry, John, there's no need to, it's not."

With that, he strode back across the classroom towards Johannes and Louis, who were playing hackey-sack with an ice-pack.

Alex continued to stare down at his book, he hadn't turned the page once since he'd opened it.

* * *

That lunch time, they all sat around their usual table in the cafeteria. Everyone was yelling and laughing loudly and the noise was making Alex's head throb like it was being drilled into.

"Have you eaten?" John's voice, rather than his words permeated Alex's thoughts,

He looked up, incomprehension and discomfort clear in his eyes as he stared at John.

"What?" His tone was nervous.

"I was wondering whether you'd eaten, but- Alex, are you alright?"

The teenager smiled, big bright and false.

"Yeah, yeah. Just couldn't hear you over," he waved his hand to indicate the noise and them. His eyes were still unfocused and pained.

It was when they sat down someone quieter, John's idea that Alex had greatly welcomed, when John realised what was up.

Alex had been suffering through migraines regularly for the past few weeks. Sometimes, John would come around in the morning and Lafayette would answer the door with a whispered hello. All the lights upstairs were turned off and it would only be in the late afternoon when Alex would trod sleepily downstairs with a bowl he'd washed in the bathroom sink.

Alex had confided in him that the migraines probably had little to do with the overdose itself and more to do with the stress that had followed it. As of yet, he was still technically a suicide threat and hadn't been prescribed any medication that could alleviate some of this stress.

He sat opposite John in a chair in the geography hallway, his eyes closed and his body tense.

"Alex, you know it's not going to get any better. You should go home."

Alex clutched the sides of his face, deep lines cut into his forehead and around his eyes.

"I'm just- If I hadn't stressed so much over all this, none of this would be happening."

John said nothing, he stood up and drew the blinds shut. The squares of harsh sunlight, arranged in slanting columns on the floor, were extinguished.

"I'm just-just mad at myself."

John said nothing, merely rubbed Alex's shoulder in a manner he hoped was warm and comforting. Alex sighed again and John wondered if he'd done something wrong.

"If I hadn't done it, they'd be able to give me some sort of pill. At least _something_ for this, at least painkillers."

John didn't have anything particularly appropriate to say, so instead he picked up Alexander's hand where is sat, limp, by his side and pressed it to his lips.

"Shall we go to the front office and call George and Martha before the worst of it comes?"

Because John knew if Alex didn't get home soon, there was a good chance he'd be sick at school. He needed the dark quiet of his room and lots of water. So he and Alex walked to the office and, while Alex sat on one of the sofas, head in hand, explained the situation.

George and Martha were very understanding, of course. It was George who took an early lunch to drive to the school and collect him, talking quietly to John before leading a pale, hunched over Alex to the car.

Alex slid into the back seat with his face in his hands and, immediately, curled up against the far wall of the car. He was nauseous and dizzy, even the distant sounds of cars and wind around him hurt so badly. He just wanted quiet.

They drove in total silence, but the rushing of the freeway beneath them and the hum of the engines was deafening and every time the car jerked over a bump, Alex had to hold back vomit. George helped him out of the car when they'd parked, Alex keeping one hand over his eyes, the other holding George's arm to maintain balance. He felt stupid and weak and pathetic, but knew he'd be in school puking his guts out right now if he hadn't called them.

As they stepped over the front porch and the darkness of the empty house greeted Alex, he opened one eye and broke away from George. Stumbling erratically like some half-starved beast, he fell into the bathroom and threw up the lunch he had so painstakingly forced himself to eat.

Afterwards, he wiped his mouth and, not willing to attempt the long climb upstairs to his room, he fell onto the sofa in the dark living room. George, moving quietly around him, began pull the curtains as tight as they could go and flicked off the dim lamp in the corner off the room. He unfolded a blanket on the end of the sofa and laid it over Alex carefully.

The teenager mumbled something like a thank you and George rested a comforting hand on his shoulder for a moment, before turning and walking quietly from the room, closing the door with as little noise as possible behind him.

It was impractical to keep Alexander in the living room all afternoon long, as eventually Martha and Gilbert would come home and the downstairs half of the house would be noisy and bright, the living room needed for the television, the bookcase and the stack of mail George had placed on the sideboard earlier.

Alexander was asleep when George pushed the door gently open and moved to stir him as he slept, eyebrows furrowed in pain and his skin hot to the touch. He blinked dimly and confusedly when George tapped him on the shoulder, looking up at his foster father with little more than bleary half-recognition.

"Gilbert will be home soon, you should go to bed."

Alexander blinked again, rather owlishly, and began to get to his feet. George reached out to steady him but Alexander shook off the hand he placed on his elbow and lumbered out of the room, one hand covering his eyes from the light of the hallway and the other groping like a blind man for the wall.

George watched him as he disappeared past the balcony at the top of the stairs, heard his irregular, heavy footsteps as they moved into his bedroom and finally the creak of a bed.

George picked up his phone and called Martha, she answered after about thirty seconds.

"George? Is he alright?"

George sighed and ran a hand through his hair, "yeah, yeah, just another migraine. I'm sure they're not pleasant, but he'll be fine in the morning."

He heard the ruffling of papers and the clicking of a pen, "how do you think we should ask him?"

They were talking about this again.

"I don't think we should do anything... Just approach him with it sometime, let him see how he feels about it."

"Gilbert can't know before he's made a decision about it, he'd get too excited."

George laughed quietly and strode towards the kitchen, opening his work laptop and plugging it into his charger by the wall.

"I agree entirely. But what do you think he'll say?"

"He'll probably just be confused. Really, as he's fifteen, we're adopting him so we won't receive any more payment for having him, and so he's recognised legally alongside Gil. Maybe he'll think it's pointless, seeing as he turns eighteen in less than three years anyway."

Martha made a small, thoughtful sound, "possibly. It's his choice, really."

George hummed quietly in agreement, "well. I think we'll wait until the Christmas holidays, don't you? So he'll not be too overwhelmed with schoolwork to think about it."

* * *

John desperately wanted to visit Alexander after school. He hated seeing Alexander in pain, especially when he was completely helpless to do anything but worry over him. Unfortunately, as his father was still furious at him for spending the night at Louis' place and not asking him (his father, John thought, probably suspected he and Louis' relationship was more than just friendly) so he was grounded for the next week.

The first thing he did when he got home was text Lafayette to hear how Alex was. Alex had confided in him that his migraines actually had little to do with the pills he had taken and much more to do with the stress he put himself under. It hurt John to think that Alexander was under so much stress that in manifested in physical pain and, that once more, there was very little he could do to alleviate nay of this other than trying to treat Alex as though he was normal, sane and mature. If there was one thing he knew his boyfriend hated, it was being fussed over and initialised.

 _John (just now): How is he? asleep?_

 _Lafayette (just now): Asleep, yeah. He'll be alright in the morning. Come around and walk us to school?_

 _John (just now): If I can leave early without my dad thinking I'm off to do cocaine at a gay orgy._

 _Lafayette (just now): Wow_

 _John (just now): i know. he honestly thinks that._

 _Lafayette (just now): Well, if you can get time away from all those orgies, come around tomorrow._

 _John (just now): fuck you. I'll be there._

He tossed his phone down onto his bed and sighed, pushing his hands through his hair and staring up at the ceiling. If Lafayette wasn't concerned and could actually see how Alex was doing, everything was probably fine. If there was one person who fussed more over Alexander than John did, it had to be Laf. It actually breached the boundaries of being friendly sometimes and, like Hercules, they often teased him for being such a mother hen.

He lay on his bed, watching the ceiling and listening to the sounds of his siblings playing in the next room. Alex would be alright. He just needed Francis to fuck off back to Syracuse, or wherever he was living, and people to stop listening to the stupid rumours about his boyfriend. He and Alex were in a good place, and he didn't want anything to threaten that. He _wouldn't let_ anything threaten that.


	44. A Notice

**Hello! So I last updated in December, and we are currently leaving June. I think most of you would appreciate an explanation. I've been struggling with anorexia for a few years now and starting at around September, things began to get worse. I don't think it's necessary to disclose every detail of personal information related to the event, but I will say that I've been in outpatient CAMHS (British child and adolescent mental health services) and then a private inpatient hospital since Februrary. No internet, no contact with anyone but family, certainly no laptop to write on.**

 **I caught up with all the reviews last weekend on a visit off-site and realised how much I've neglected this story and its readers over the past year or so. I've become disheartened, wondering if all I have to offer as a writer is fan-fiction for a musical I don't even like all that much anymore.**

 **I would love to keep writing this story, I think it exercises by creative muscles or whatever, but I think updates might be irregular and a little slow. I would love to say I plan to bring this story to a conclusion, with everything wrapped up nicely in a neat bow, but I'm not sure I have the patience or motivation for that. I've been writing this story for nearly two years now and I just think it's only natural my ideas and interests have moved on.**

 **Some characters, ones I've written thousands upon thousands of words on and you've ever met yet, will stick with me. Moments that will influence anything I ever write again.**

 **So this isn't goodbye, it's more like hello.**

 **However, I think I might move to Archive of Our Own soon, to publish original work with a little more dignity. When I do, I'll be sure to let you all know.**

 **Thanks for tuning in and, as always, for being as understanding, kind, enthusiastic and supportive as any pseudo-creative could wish for.**


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